


The Vacation Fic

by hjbender



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Adventure, Crack, Crude Humor, Gen, Innuendo, Slapstick, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2000-08-15
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa wins a free vacation for five in a box of cereal, and the Gundam pilots find themselves on a suspicious tropical island where various members of their party get sunburned, injured, intoxicated beyond comprehension, attacked by shellfish, and marked for sacrifice in the local volcano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Veni Vidi Vacation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in 2000 under the title "Help! I'm Vacationing and I Can't Get Up!", undergoing revisions and additions ever since.

_Colony Cluster L2_  
  
Four weeks paid vacation.  
  
Four whole weeks.  
  
It all sounded real fine and dandy to one Duo Maxwell, who, for the past month, had been teetering on the precipice overlooking that endless void of executive insanity. When he had been delivered the news, a dance of joy was later performed in the office of his superiors to a captive audience. His superiors, or what remained of them after the whole Christmas fiasco last year, were willing to do anything at this point to get the destructive, maniacal pilot out of their hair for a while, even if that included a paid holiday. 

* * *

_A Trailer Somewhere_  
  
“Don’t eat too much of that stuff or else your mouth will chafe.”  
  
Trowa Barton looked across the breakfast table at his sister Catherine and ate his bowl of Major Munch® in silence.  
  
“I don’t know how you can stand to eat it anyway,” she went on. “It’s got no nutritional value. The circus sells healthier food than that junk.”  
  
“I didn’t buy it,” said Trowa.  
  
“Well I didn’t buy it, either.”  
  
“Maybe J.J. bought it.”  
  
“Trowa, J.J. is a tricycle-riding Beagle. What do you think, he just pedaled down to Publix because he was in the mood for cereal?”  
  
Trowa shrugged and went to pour another helping. Suddenly a plastic-wrapped something fell out of the box and into his bowl. He picked it up.  
  
“What’s that?” asked Catherine.  
  
“Huh. It looks like I won something.”

* * *

_Somewhere in the L1 Colony Cluster_  
  
It was a very large bomb. Larger than he would have liked. Actually, it wasn’t large at all, but the combination of C4 and nitroglycerin wired up to the detonator made it large in the largest of ways, especially if he were to accidentally trip the countdown mechanism. That made the bomb larger than life in this case, and probably larger than death, too. Dismantling it would be a meticulous process. The slightest disturbance could blow him straight to Kingdom Come and all the way through to Kingdom Gone. In convenient, bloody, bite-size pieces.  
  
The room was dim. A bare light bulb hung above his head, burning through the back of his skull. He held the red wire with a pair of tweezers. He brought the scissors down. Slowly . . . slowly . . .  
  
RRRING!  
  
The phone shrieked in Heero’s ear, and the poor bastard nearly exploded. He fell off his stool and thudded onto the concrete floor with a dismayed snarl. Why he had a phone was anyone’s guess, because nobody called him since Heero didn’t have any friends, and the friends he _did_ have he didn’t want.  
  
He grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear in time to hear a male voice sing, “ _Hello hello baby you called I can’t hear a_ —”  
  
“Who is this, and how did you get this number?”  
  
“It’s Duo, man! You know: long braid, cassock, jodhpurs? Shot you when we first met? Loyal friend and ally who—”  
  
“I know who you are, Maxwell, you idiot.”  
  
“Oh, good. Saves me the trouble of introducing myself. How goes it, ol buddy ol pal?”  
  
“Oh, fine, fine. Couldn’t be better. I’m just dismantling a bomb that could take out half a city block, nothing impor—”  
  
“You on vacation, too? I heard you were taking it easy over there.”  
  
“Who told you _that_ lie? I’m working, which is more than I can say for some people I know—”  
  
“Oh, pipe down. Trowa won five tickets in a box of Major Munch for an all-expenses-paid trip to Saint Abalone Island in the South Pacific. Think, Heero: sun, fun, all-you-can-eat lobster buffets, slot machines and blackjack, hot babes in bikinis puttin’ on suntan lotion—don’t you _tell_ me you aren’t tempted by _that_ —and most importantly—”  
  
Heero pulled the phone from his ear as he heard Duo’s tinny voice scream, “NO WORRRRRK!”  
  
He put the phone back to his ear as Scotsman William Wallace bellowed, “And it’s FUH-REEEEE!”  
  
He switched ears. “Thank you for that lovely and tempting invitation, Duo. No need to worry. I have another ear.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
  
“Apology unaccepted.”  
  
“You beast. That was cold.”  
  
Heero grinned his trademark grin of reckless abandon and toyed with a set of needle nose pliers. “I’m the King of Cold,” he said.  
  
“You aren’t, won’t not be for long youse ain’t not by a long shot!” Duo spouted, ignoring the quintuple negative run-on sentence in wrong tense he just uttered. “You’re takin’ a vacation (haha, that rhymed) if I have to come over there and break your arms and legs—and maybe your ribs if I feel the need—although you can probably just pop those back into place. Can you?”  
  
“I can. Double jointed ribs.”  
  
“Rats. Well, so much for that idea. C’mon, man! We need you.”  
  
“Why, Duo. I’m touched.”  
  
“Shut up. You _need_ a break. Please. Come with us and I promise I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the year.”  
  
“You swear it?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“You're lying.”  
  
“Man, don’t you remember my frickin’ motto?! _I may run and hide but I never_ —”  
  
“Never mind. You swear on your mother’s good name?”  
  
Pause.  
  
“I don’t know my mother’s name. I’m an orphan.”  
  
“Lucky her.”  
  
“You’re an orphan too, Heero. We might be brothers, separated at birth—”  
  
“The hell we are. I think I’d shoot myself first. Or shoot you. Or divorce you.”  
  
“You can’t do that! I haven’t finished paying off your engagement ring yet!”  
  
Silence on the other end. Duo thought he heard a clip being loaded into a handgun.  
  
“Well, me and the boys are gonna meet up at the Honolulu International Spaceport tomorrow and drive down to the harbor to catch the cruise out to Saint Abalone. The boat leaves at 1600 hours, so you better start packing now. Oh and Heero?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Leave your guns at home this time.”  
  
“I’ll try.”  
  
“I mean it, Heero. It’s hell trying to get through customs.”  
  
“ _I’ll try_.”  
  
“The last time all of us went anywhere with you, Quatre got molested by a security guard and I got a free cavity search.”  
  
“Yes, I remember that.”  
  
“I couldn’t shit right for a week.”  
  
“I remember that, too.”  
  
“Really nice of you to tell my co-workers I was on sick leave because of a goatse-related accident, by the way. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“Your best interest is always in my mind, Duo.”  
  
“Sure it is. _Hasta mañana,_ Hermione.”  
  
Click.  
  
Heero hung up the phone, then froze. It took a full minute for the reality of what he had actually done to register in his head. When it finally did, he slapped a hand to his forehead and groaned, “Oh no.”

* * *

“—everybody’s goin’ SURRRFIN’! Surfin’ You Es Ay! Round round, get around, I get around! Get around, woo-ooo, I get arou—”  
  
“Pull over, Duo. I’ve got the dry heaves.”  
  
“You shut your pie hole, Barton. It’s not like _you_ can sing any better.”  
  
The tall, lanky brunette straightened himself. “Actually, I’m quite a gifted musician, and I studied song and chorus at Berklee for four years.”  
  
Duo narrowed his eyes. “Tell ya what, I’ll ignore that last part and you can keep all your teeth, how’s that sound?”  
  
“Sounds like Bob Dylan doing a Yoko Ono impersonation,” Trowa muttered as he hunched in the passenger seat of the drop-top military Hummer Duo was driving and crossed his arms. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”  
  
“Please, fellas. Can’t we all get along?” Quatre, sitting in the back, leaned between the front seats with a friendly smile. “It’s been ages since we’ve been able to get together like this, so why don’t we . . . Wufei, is that a _seppuku_ blade you’re sharpening?”  
  
Wufei, seated beside Quatre, stuffed the blade behind his back. “No. Maybe. It’s for cutting vegetables.”  
  
“It’s a _seppuku_ blade, isn’t it. Give it here!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Give it here _now_!”  
  
“It’s my own life! I can kill myself if I want!”  
  
“I don’t like bloodshed!” Quatre cried.  
  
“Which is ironic, considering you’ve got a vagina.”  
  
“I do not have a vagina! Take it back!”  
  
“It’s probably a big ugly hairy one, too. With warts.”  
  
“TROWAA!” Quatre sang. “MAKE WUFEI STOP!”  
  
“Don’t let him bother you, Quat. I’m sure you’ve got a lovely vagina.”  
  
“Thar she blows!” Duo declared, and spiked the brakes with both feet. The vehicle stopped, but its occupants were still traveling at 65 mph. All three passengers were sent hurtling forward until their safety belts abruptly strangled them.  
  
Wufei wrenched his forehead from the back of Duo’s seat and advised Quatre to do the same with his teeth which were embedded in Trowa’s headrest. Trowa had his face smeared into the glove box and a nylon strap pinning his thyroid to his spine. Duo, oblivious to them all, waved cheerfully at Heero.  
  
Pilot 01 was standing on the curb outside of Honolulu International with a silver attaché case instead of a normal suitcase like everyone else had, and wearing deeply tinted sunglasses, a dark button-down shirt and black slacks. He looked like he was going to a funeral, and for all Heero was concerned, he was. The others wore similar attire except Duo, who was dressed in a flapping pair cargo shorts, neon orange flip flops, and an unsightly Hawaiian shirt adorned with hula girls and surfboards.  
  
“Climb on in!” he called. “You can sit between Winner and Chang.”  
  
Heero looked at Duo in his hideous outfit, then at Quatre, picking the leather out of his teeth, Wufei with upholstery marks on his forehead and sharpening his _seppuku_ blade, then back at Duo, then at Trowa, who might have to have surgery to get his seatbelt removed from his larynx, and finally back at Duo again.  
  
“You’d better hope I die before you.”

* * *

They reached the dock right on time thanks to Duo’s reckless driving, parked the Hummer, and went to get their luggage checked at the dock.  
  
“Duo, did anyone ever tell you that you drive to kill?” Heero inquired. “You were speeding into oncoming traffic half of the time.”  
  
Duo shrugged. “Hell, this is America. I pay taxes for both sides of the road. I can drive anywhere I damn please.”  
  
After getting their luggage taken care of, they were given their passes and prepared to board the small cruise boat that would be taking them to Saint Abalone, island of luxury vacationing. However, one member of the group wasn’t too thrilled about the water.  
  
“I . . . I think I need some air,” Quatre said hoarsely as they were all standing on deck, watching the land disappear behind them.  
  
Trowa nudged Wufei. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.  
  
Wufei raised a finger and recited, “ _The desert flower that tames the sun, the river’s flood still overruns_.”  
  
Trowa’s eyes were as empty and vacant as Duo’s skull. “I’ve read VCR manuals that made more sense than that.”  
  
Wufei leaned casually on the rail, jerked a thumb toward Quatre and muttered, “He’s about to toss his fortune cookies.”  
  
Trowa looked over Quatre, who was by now turning a very distinct green hue, and instantly became nervous. He nudged Duo. Duo took one look at Quatre and began to tug on Heero’s sleeve.  
  
“What is it?” Heero snapped, then caught sight of Quatre. “Oh no.”  
  
“Guys . . . ?” Quatre moaned. “I think . . . I think I’m gonna—”

* * *

The five intrepid vacationers stepped off the gangplank and onto Saint Abalone Island just as the stars were beginning to come out. It looked like the typical tropical tourist trap, at least in the dark: rounded mountains loomed from a dense wild jungle on the horizon, and everything five miles inland from the beach looked like downtown Las Vegas. But the boys didn’t really give a damn what the island looked like. It was dry land, and that was really all that mattered.  
  
“That’s the last time you’re ever gettin’ on a boat with _me_ again, Quat,” Duo muttered.  
  
Quatre, who had resumed a healthier shade of skin tone, replied, “Sorry, Duo. I can’t help it.”  
  
“You can help next time by not vomiting on six-foot-ten Swedish bodybuilders named Bjorn,” Trowa said. “It was pure luck that Heero was able to step in and save your life.”  
  
Heero was last down the gangplank, supported by Wufei, and looking positively fetching with a black eye and busted lip.  
  
“Good thing you know how to set bones, Yuy,” Wufei remarked, “otherwise we’d be carrying you off this ship in an Ikea punch bowl.”  
  
“I made a minor miscalculation,” Heero muttered, limping slightly. “I thought I could take him. It was a bad call, I admit it. Now let’s all just shut up and forget about it.”  
  
“Aw, did big bad Heewo get his big bad ego bwoken?” Duo teased.  
  
“Maxwell, you’re going to be in serious trouble when my bones knit.”  
  
“Ease up, guys!” Quatre chided. “Come on, let’s just find our hotel and get settled in. I’m sure we’ll all be feeling better after a good night’s rest.”

* * *

“They _what_?” Duo slapped his hands down on the front desk and glared at the clerk, who gazed at him through half-closed eyes. Either Duo’s Shinigami Glare was losing its sparkle or the clerk had run out of fucks to give.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir,” she repeated flatly, “but we have no record of your reservations. However, we’ll be glad to accommodate you in one of our honeymoon suites—”  
  
Heero’s left eye began to twitch.  
  
“But there’s five of us!” Duo cried.  
  
“Well, it’s none of our business how you boys make it work. What happens on Saint Abalone stays on Saint Abalone, you know what I’m saying?”  
  
Duo put on a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Um. Whatever you say, lady.”  
  
“Very good. Here’s your key.”  
  
Duo looked at the number on the tag and froze. “Is this room 999 or . . . 666?”  
  
“We only have 700 rooms, sir.”  
  
There was silence.  
  
“The hell you say.”  
  
“Precisely,” the clerk replied.

_**One hour later** _

“Well, _now_ what?” Heero muttered, massaging his still-sore cheekbone. All five of them were seated on a bench outside of Gilligan’s Gumbo Hut and watching the other tourists enjoy the evening activities.  
  
“We need to find a hotel,” said Wufei. “We can’t stay out here all night.”  
  
“Just watch us,” Quatre moped, resting his chin in his hands.  
  
Trowa sighed, propping one foot up on his suitcase. It looked like it had been around the world six times and visited every circus on its route. “I knew it was a bad idea coming here.”  
  
Slowly, all heads turned to gaze coolly at Duo. He grinned weakly and shrugged.  
  
“If we survive this, remind me to kill you,” said Heero.  
  
“You can kill him after _I_ kill him first,” Quatre seconded, cracking his knuckles.  
  
“Hey, don’t blame _me_ ,” Duo cried. “ _Trowa_ here won the tickets—”  
  
“Yeah, but _asshole_ here took them from me.”  
  
Wufe snarled, “Will the both of you just shut the hell—”  
  
A shadow suddenly materialized before them and they looked up to see a portly old chap with white hair and a bushy mustache smile down at them. “Sorry, I didn't mean ter eavesdrop, but are ye lads lookin’ fer a place to stay?” He sounded like Mr Krabs from _Spongebob Squarepants_.  
  
Duo practically jumped from his seat. “Are we ever!”  
  
The jolly old seadog laughed, his massive gut quaking. “I see! Well, then, look no further! I have room for you all at my hotel.”  
  
“But how much is it, sir?” asked Quatre politely.  
  
“It’s free, lad! I had a group book a room and pay in advance and they never showed up. I was jest steppin’ outta the galley here when I overheard yer plight. Figured I’d be nice and do a good deed, eh? And by the way, just call me Captain Billy!”  
  
He pounded Quatre on the back and roared with laughter. Trowa had to catch him as he plunged forward out of his seat.  
  
“You alright?” he asked.  
  
Quatre wheezed, “Vertebra. Punctured my lung.”  
  
“Wow! Thanks a lot, Captain!” Duo cried, springing to his feet and grabbing his luggage.  
  
Beaming, Captain Billy proclaimed, “Follow me, mates! Har har!”

* * *

It was a rustic looking place that looked as if it had been there since the island was first inhabited by white man. Decorated in a flashy, touristy, tiki style that would have spelled gaudy in capital letters elsewhere, it had a nice view of the ocean and was away from the crush of downtown paradise. Potted tropical plants adorned the large, drafty lobby while native islander masks hung on the walls. Torches lit the front veranda and festive lanterns traced the pathways to the separate bungalows, which were all connected by gravel walkways to the main building. We find our heroes stepping into their apartment right now . . .  
  
“Well, guys, this is it,” Duo declared, dropping his suitcases on the floor. “Home away from home.”  
  
Wufei shouldered past him. “Not to me it isn’t. This island is crawling with evil. I can feel it.”  
  
“Oh you think everything is evil,” Quatre said.  
  
“Only ‘cause it is.”  
  
“It’s actually kind of nice here,” said Trowa, lifting his hair out of his eyes for a better view. “Mini kitchen. Vaulted ceilings.”  
  
“There’s probably bats up there,” observed Heero.  
  
“Oh, goody! I love bats,” Duo chirped. “I got dibs on the bed near the window.”  
  
“Fine,” said Heero. “Then I can just lift up one side and roll you out if you start snoring.”  
  
“Hey, it’d be my first time being dumped by a guy.”  
  
Quatre studied the room with a worried expression. “Looks like we’ve got a problem, gentlemen. Two beds and five people.”  
  
“There’s always the bathtub.”  
  
“I think I’ll sleep in the jacuzzi.”  
  
“Does anyone in here sleep naked?”  
  
“You don’t kick in your sleep, do you?”  
  
“I will if you spoon me, damn it.”  
  
“I hope I don’t meet a girl. I don’t think I could bear bringing her back to this place.”  
  
“Duo, if you told her you were rooming with four other guys she’d probably think you’re gay.”  
  
“You _are_ gay.”  
  
“Your mama’s gay.”  
  
“Haha, joke’s on you, my mama’s dead.”  
  
“And so are you!” POWF.  
  
The cry went up: “PILLOW FIIIIIGHT!”  
  
In a matter of seconds the room was filled with feathers and everyone was playing offense by buffeting anything that moved with a pillow. Quatre spat out the prickly feathers coating his tongue and shouted over the muffled thumping, “STOP IT, GUYS! ONLY GIRLS HAVE PILLOW FIGHTS!”  
  
“Then you should fit right in!”  
  
Pilot 04 was pummeled with a half-empty pillow and sent tumbling down onto the bed mattress. Duo, in an attempt to dive-bomb Wufei, jumped from a bedside table and onto the bed. Unfortunately, he didn’t count on the bed having such sturdy springs and was propelled headfirst into a ceiling rafter with a great THUNK. The plank splintered and Duo hit the mattress on his back. He didn’t move.  
  
“Wow. I bet that hurt,” Trowa murmured as they all calmed down and went to their fallen amigo’s side.  
  
“The crazy bastard probably broke his neck,” said Wufei after a head-to-toe forensic assessment of the now possibly-paralyzed American.  
  
“Hey, Duo.” Heero nudged his shoulder gently. “Are you alright?”  
  
Duo’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned. “Wh . . . what happened?”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Dangledick Humptywank,” he murmured.  
  
“Oh dear,” said Quatre.  
  
“Where are you from, Dangle?”  
  
“Russia with love.”  
  
“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”  
  
“China. Everything’s made in China.”  
  
“Where do you live?”  
  
“Inna gadda da vida.”  
  
“What’s your dog’s name?”  
  
“I don’t have a father.”  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
“With my hands.”  
  
Heero crossed his arms and shook his head. “You’re a terrible actor.”  
  
Duo uncrossed his eyes and grinned at his fellow compatriots, who collectively breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
“I don’t suppose a hit like that could damage your thick skull,” Wufei said.  
  
“I'm actually surprised he didn't bring the roof down.”  
  
The phone on the nightstand rang suddenly and Trowa picked it up. “Yello.”  
  
Pause.  
  
“Yeah. Yes, we are. Uh huh.”  
  
Duo tapped his shoulder but Trowa swatted him away.  
  
“Yeah. A-yeah. Mm hm. Is that all? Alright. I suggest then, sir, that you take your end of the phone and kindly ram it up your—”  
  
Quatre grabbed the receiver away with a horrified look. “Are you _nuts_!”  
  
“It was the people in one of the other bungalows. They were complaining about the noise.”  
  
“Well let _me_ handle it!” Quatre snapped, and put the phone to his ear.  
  
“Bribe them, Winner,” said Wufei. “It's the only way.”  
  
Quatre motioned for them all to shut up. “To whom am I speaking?” he asked cheerily. “Well, Mr Babaganoosh, I am terribly sorry for the disturbance. You see, I’m a Nepalese trainee monk with the Foundation for Underprivileged Children of Kathmandu, and am in charge of looking after four mentally handicapped students, one of whom is a diagnosed sociopath—”  
  
Quatre shot a glance toward the sulking Trowa.  
  
“—one manic schizophrenic—”  
  
Duo looked flattered.  
  
“—one obsessive-compulsive hypochondriac—”  
  
Wufei returned the glare.  
  
“—and one suffering from pure psychosis.”  
  
Heero lifted his eyes briefly from whatever device he was making beep urgently in his silver attaché case.  
  
Quatre absently toyed with the curly phone cord. “They’re all orphans from meth-addicted mothers and have been afflicted with leprosy and have inoperable carcinogenic hemorrhoids. Yes, sir, very tragic. We’re on a field trip for therapeutic purposes, you see. It might be the last time any of them get to experience a life outside of shoveling yak patties and fainting from edema in the Himalayan Mountains.”  
  
Quatre winked at his four comrades, who were gawping at him in shock.  
  
He continued, “Yes, terribly sad. Thank you for understanding, Mr Babaganoosh. I hope we won’t be disturbing you any further. Oh, no no, really, there’s no need to apologize. Yes. Of course. Thank you. And a good evening to you, too.”  
  
Quatre placed the receiver on the cradle, crossed his legs, and smiled politely.  
  
Heero broke the silence. “You’re the master of phony platitudes, Winner.”  
  
Winner took a bow. Wufei beamed proudly. Trowa arched an eyebrow. Duo abruptly had a hilarity overload, convulsed as if in seizure, and fell on the floor braying like a jackass. Heero curled his lip in disgust and moved away. For the next four minutes everyone watched the American laugh himself to tears until he at last sat up and gasped, “Woo. That was funny.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Wufei levelly, “I almost ruptured a testicle.”  
  
Trowa turned to Quatre. “What’s the time?”  
  
“Exactly nine thirty,” Quatre replied, looking at his wristwatch.  
  
“Fantastic. I’m going to bed.”  
  
“This early?”  
  
“Yeah. Putting up with you maniacs is exhausting.”  
  
Heero concurred, “I think we should all go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.”  
  
Duo looked delighted. “Why Heero! Does this mean you actually care about your friends?”  
  
“No. I just don’t want you morons keeping me up all night with your giggling and pillow-fighting.” He looked directly at Quatre. “Or pillow-biting.”  
  
The blond raised his hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You’re this close, Hiiro-san. Go on. Say something else, I dare you. I _double_ dare you, motherfucker.”  
  
It was suddenly so quiet you could hear a flea fart in Bangladesh. Heero, who had seen firsthand exactly what Quatre was capable of doing to a human body even without the influence of the Zero system, elected not to say something else and turned his attention back to his attaché case.  
  
“Okaaaay,” Duo drawled. “Uh, let’s see, Heero and I will take this bed. Quatre, my man, you and Trowa and Chang can share that one.”  
  
“Oh hell no, Maxwell,” Wufei growled. “You can’t expect me to share a bed with that lanky, long-legged bastard. _You_ can sleep with the clown, _I’ll_ bunk with Yuy.”  
  
“You can’t, ‘cause _I’m_ bunkin’ with Yuy.”  
  
“If you kick him in your sleep he’s going to put his thumbs through your eye sockets.”  
  
“No he won’t.”  
  
“Yes he will, I’ve seen him do it.”  
  
Trowa looked at Quatre. “This could take all night. I’m going to bed.”  
  
“Good plan. Leave some leg room for me.”

* * *

The sounds of deep breathing filled the bungalow. Our heroes were fast asleep, suitcases strewn all over the floor and shirts and socks draped over lamps, bureaus, and headboards. They hadn’t even bothered to fully unpack their things. It seemed that as soon as one of them got tired the rest followed, as if their minds were all connected by an invisible force. Which is terrifying, when you think about it.  
  
As far as the Who-Gets-to-Bunk-With-Yuy situation went, after much arguing Duo and Wufei finally managed to reach a compromise without too much grief and bloodshed; Quatre and Trowa had one bed all to themselves while Duo and Heero had the other bed all to themselves, and Wufei had a cot on the other side of the room all to himself. The only reason Wufei wasn’t upset about this arrangement was because certain intelligence had surfaced that Heero farted uncontrollably in his sleep, and Duo didn’t mind sharing a bed with an uncontrollable farter. “It keeps me warm,” he said, and that was that.  
  
At the moment Heero, still awake and in a non-farteous state of consciousness, was huddled as far away from Duo as possible while the American’s somnambulant body insisted on conquering the entire bed or be destroyed trying. Heero found himself the unwilling bedfellow to one of the world’s antsiest sleepers. Tossing and turning and kicking—it wouldn’t end. And Duo snored. _Loudly._ Heero had jabbed his bedmate in the ribs and stuffed a corner of the blanket into his mouth, but nothing worked. He finally nodded off with Duo’s leg splayed across his back while defending his half of duvet from the dreaded Hogging.  
  
Duo was dead to the world when a strange sensation brought him from a very pleasing dream he had been having about hula girls. It was a . . . tingly sensation. Something— _something_ was on his leg! It felt like a hand, and for one horrified moment he thought Heero may have been having a dirty dream, but it felt too cold . . . and hairy. Wait a minute! Heero didn’t have big, cold, hairy hands!  
  
Duo ripped the blankets from his body and looked down to see the biggest, nastiest, hairiest, ugliest tarantula—the mother and father and God Almighty of all arachnids—ascending his leg with gleaming fangs. A scream of feminine shrillness rent the air like a pistol shot and suddenly the occupants of the bungalow were wide awake. Bedside lamps clicked on and everyone sat up in alarm.  
  
“GITTITOFF OHMAGOD!” Duo bawled with enough force to blow out a lung. “AUUUGH! AUUUGH! JEESUS! JEEEEEEEEESUS!”  
  
And he kicked the arachnid off. It went sailing through the air, landing squarely in Quatre’s nest of messy blond hair. Quatre shrieked and went into a spastic, hair-ripping, hand-flapping frenzy, sending the unfortunate creature flying into the air yet again, this time touching down on Heero’s chest.  
  
Duo screamed as loud as his vocal cords could permit and pointed, ranting hysterically, “IT’S ON YOU, HEERO! AIIIEEE! DON’T LET IT GET ON ME! OHSHITOHGODOHFUCK IT’S GONNA BITE!”  
  
He leaped across the room and onto Trowa and Quatre’s bed. Unfortunately, the frame was made of rather weak bamboo and the legs snapped off like cheap toothpicks. The mattress crashed onto the floor, and Duo tumbled over Quatre and accidentally smashed his balls into his pal’s head.  
  
“AAAAAUUUUGH!” he wailed. “MY CHILDRENNN!”  
  
Trowa made like eggs and scrambled away from the melee. Heero flung the tarantula off of himself and, with a heaving bosom, jumped up onto the bureau in the corner.  
  
Trowa looked up in time to see the underside of the spider as it landed on his face. Quatre was the first to scream and lit upon the nightstand like a frantic canary, knocking the phone across the room and ripping the wire out of the drywall. He put his hands to his face in horror. Trowa looked as if he were being electrocuted as he danced around the room and beat at his face. Duo went ice cold with paralysis and stared. All throughout the entire event, the screaming was ceaseless.  
  
Wufei watched them all with a dull, sleepy expression.  
  
“KILL IT, DUO! IT’S GONNA CRAWL DOWN HIS THROAT!” Quatre shrieked.  
  
Duo, one hand protecting his testicles from any more unexpected assaults, clambered to the floor and grabbed one of the broken bed legs with the intention of knocking the hostile monster off of Trowa’s face.  
  
“HURRY! BEFORE IT LAYS ITS EGGS IN HIS CHEST!”  
  
The spider had the sense to leap off of Trowa’s face just as Duo swung back for the pitch. Green eyes opened in time to see a small tree come flying into his face.  
  
“Oh no—”  
  
Right in the kisser. There was the sound of cracking bamboo. Shards of wood exploded. Snot and spit and bloody chiclets sprayed into the air. To Duo’s horror, Trowa fell over backward, semiconscious, and onto the floor.  
  
“GET HIM OFF THE GROUND!” Quatre howled. “THAT THING’LL GET HIM!”  
  
Duo, like a heroic soldier dodging enemy fire in the trenches of World War I, dragged Trowa’s limp body onto the broken bed, brandishing the bamboo leg like a sword. Heero had his eyes shut tight and mouth open in an endless scream. When he finally ran out of air, silence descended. It was quiet for a long time.  
  
Wufei, at a loss, spoke up. “Are you all out of your fucking minds, or did I miss the memo?”  
  
Quatre pointed to an open suitcase. “OHMAGODTHEREITIS!”  
  
Summoning his courage, Duo jumped off the bed and began to enthusiastically beat the hell out of the suitcase’s contents. He finally ceased after several articles of clothing lay in shreds and pieces. Panting for breath, he lowered his weapon.  
  
“Did you kill it?” Heero asked.  
  
“I du, I-I dunno.”  
  
“Well, check, stupid!”  
  
Duo inched forward and poked at the clothes.  
  
How the tarantula survived in the first place was a miracle, and the thing was so frightened it came streaking out of the suitcase like a furry black cannonball and attached itself to Duo’s foot.  
  
“AAUUUGGHH FUCKIN HAIL MARY MAMA HELLLLL!”  
  
Quatre and Heero screamed along with Duo as he threw himself against the walls, kicking at the furniture and clawing at the arachnid on his foot. When the thing finally lost purchase, Heero ripped the nearby glass frame painting off the wall and smashed it down on the floor. In his hysterics, he missed the creature by a yard. The spider scuttled under his and Duo’s bed. He grabbed the lamp and hurled it down, just because he was so upset. It shattered into a million pieces.  
  
Duo, white as paste, chucked the bed leg away with disgust. “The hell with this thing. I’m gettin’ my gun—”  
  
“Oh _sure_ ,” Heero snapped, “it’s okay for you to bring _your_ guns.”  
  
Duo raced across the room and to his suitcase, then raced back and kicked the ancient TV in the corner off its stand so he could climb on top; it exploded and shattered with an electric sizzle. He had his holster in hand. He pulled out his M1911, loaded a round in the chamber, popped in a 7-round magazine, and cocked it just as the arachnid emerged from beneath the bed.  
  
“THERE! THERE!” Quatre shouted suddenly, jabbing his finger in the air.  
  
Duo brought the gun up like a flash and aimed.  
  
**BLAM! BLAM! BLAMBLAMBLAM!**  
  
Quatre performed _Riverdance_ on the nightstand. “OH _GOD_ IT’S UP THE SHEETS! IT’S ON THE BED!”  
  
**BLAM! BLAM!**  
  
Feathers and mattress stuffing erupted into the air like confetti.  
  
“Are you blind or _something_!” Heero screamed, his voice cracking. “You missed it _completely_!”  
  
Duo lowered his gun and looked around the room. “Where the fuckin’ fuck did the fucker fuckin’ go?”  
  
“IT’S BACK!” Quatre shrieked, stabbing wildly with his finger. “THERE! ON THE FLOOR!”  
  
Duo jumped from the TV stand and fixed his laser sight at the spider’s head. It froze, looking at Duo. “MOVE ONE HAIRY LEG AND I’LL SHOOT!”  
  
Wufei rose from his cot. “Crazy fucking white people.”  
  
“Chang! Don’t!” Duo yelled as Wufei bent down and picked the spider up with his bare hands. It wriggled its thick black legs forlornly as he walked across the room and gently tossed it out the window, shutting it afterward. Then he turned and looked at his comrades: one holding a smoking gun, one out cold, one on the nightstand, and the last one on the bureau. The room was torn apart, one bed was broken, there were bullet holes in the mattresses and floor, claw marks etched onto the walls, feathers were everywhere, and all four were pale and sweaty and gasping for breath.  
  
Duo slumped to the floor with his gun in hand, staring vacantly into space.  
  
Trowa stirred and moaned. His nose was bleeding badly enough that he might hemorrhage right then and there. “Duo . . . you . . . _bidge_ ,” he grunted. “I’m gonna kill . . .” Then he passed out and kept bleeding.  
  
“Well, goodnight honkies,” said Wufei pleasantly, cutting off the lights and snuggling back into his cot, leaving his four friends alone in the dark.


	2. Sunburn and Sobriety

Needless to say, morning came too soon for Duo and the others involved in the Mad Spider Escapade of the previous night. Trowa’s personal alarm clock went off at six thirty and stayed on until seven fifteen. Duo awoke, rolled off the TV stand and onto a sharp suitcase. Taking his gun in hand, he fired the last shot at the clock, sending its entrails of sprockets and springs onto the wall. The gunshot caused Heero to snap upright from his position draped across the top of the bureau. Quatre, Trowa and Wufei all were jolted awake as well.  
  
Tossing his gun away, Duo crawled onto the TV stand, curled up like a cat, and went back to sleep. Heero shook his head and closed his eyes, hoping for a few more minutes of much-needed rest.  
  
At 8 o’clock sunlight sliced through the busted blinds, falling right across Duo’s face. He opened one eye and felt his pupil shrink down to a pinprick, causing him to grimace. “I see the light,” he murmured, “and it’s pissin’ me off.”  
  
“You can always draw the curtains,” came a voice from below, and Duo looked over the side of the stand to see Quatre lying on his back, one bamboo bed leg clutched to his chest like a rifle, looking as if he had spent the whole night staring at the ceiling. The mattress, or what remained of it, had been dragged across the room, and that was what Quatre was currently lying on. Smears and smudges of dried blood were all over his clothes and the bedsheets.  
  
“Jeez, what happened to you?”  
  
“Oh, it’s not my blood, it’s _his_.” Quatre nudged Trowa, who was lying beside him and undoubtedly still unconscious.  
  
Duo squinted. “Quatre,” he said, “are those _. . . tampons_? In his _nose_?”  
  
“Yes. He wouldn’t stop bleeding, I had no other choice.”  
  
“Where did you get _tampons_ , Quatre?”  
  
At the apparent stupidity of his question, Quatre got a sudden case of Forrest Whitaker Eye. “I packed them in case I started my period.”  
  
For a moment Duo looked as if he didn’t know if he was joking or not.  
  
“The ladies room, stupid. Honestly.”  
  
“Alright, sheesh, sorry. My bad. Happy fuckin’ morning to you, too.” Pause. “Seriously, though. You might want to change ‘em. They look nasty.”  
  
“Em Why Oh Bee, Duo.”  
  
Just then the bathroom door opened and Wufei emerged, neatly groomed and primly dressed in eye-stabbing-super-white clothes and looking very rested. He spotted his friends and remarked with a superior grin, “Ah. So you _are_ alive.”  
  
Duo oozed off of the TV stand. “Har. Har. Does this dump serve breakfast or do we have to go chop open some coconuts with our hand-made machetes?”  
  
“They serve a continental breakfast in the dining hall a short walk from the visitor’s center, or you can order something from the menu.”  
  
“You gonna eat with us?”  
  
He shook his head. “I already ate. I didn’t feel like waiting for you lazy slobs to wake up.”  
  
“I’m awake,” came Heero’s hoarse voice. “I just can’t move my body.”  
  
“I told you not to sleep on that thing,” said Quatre. “It’ll give you cramps.”  
  
“And you’d know all about _those_ , wouldn’t you?”  
  
Quatre, still lying prone on the mattress, raised his arm high enough that Heero could see it and saluted him with his middle finger.  
  
Just then Trowa stirred and sat up groggily. “Whud happ-ed las nide?” he groaned. “Add why am I talkid fuddy?”  
  
Heero lifted his head and squinted at him. “Trowa, are those _. . . tampons_?”

* * *

Everyone agreed that it would probably be in their best interest to grab some breakfast while it lasted and then sit around afterward and argue about their embarrassing incompetence when it comes to taking care of a simple home invasion.  
  
In the dining hall they sat down at a table for four. Aside from a few guests, the place was nearly empty. Wufei said he would rendezvous with them later and disappeared to perform a reconnaissance of the immediate surroundings, leaving Trowa, Quatre, Duo and Heero alone in the dining hall. Needless to say, the remaining four vacationers looked exhausted and harassed, and at least one of them looked like a ringside casualty.  
  
Duo was still wearing his pajamas, which consisted of a ratty Nickelback tank top that looked as if it had spent weeks in a heap at the bottom of his dirty laundry hamper, and the same khaki shorts he had been wearing yesterday. He seemed a bit bowlegged after getting skulled in the crotch, but he was recovering quickly. Balls of steel, he had said proudly, and then had to evade a kick aimed at said balls since Heero wanted to see if they clanged when struck.  
  
Heero himself looked slightly more tucked in than Duo, dressed plainly in jeans and a t-shirt, but his hair was pointing in every direction of the compass and he walked funny because of the way he had slept on the bureau. He still had a bruised eye and a busted lip from yesterday, yet he seemed to be coping well. Then again, Heero was programmed to cope.  
  
Trowa looked as if he and Mickey Mantle had engaged in serious battle and he’d barely managed to escape; luckily his nose had stopped bleeding, so he had been able to take the cotton mice out of his nostrils. His uncombed hair nearly completely shadowed his face but, considering the way he looked with that bluish-purple shiner across his cheekbone, it was all for the better.  
  
Quatre, who at least attempted to look decent, was wearing a white button-down shirt, his favorite red vest, and a pair of Duo’s khaki trousers since his own had been punctured by projectiles last night. The trousers were wrinkled and too big for him, and the only thing keeping them from falling around his ankles was his belt.  
  
The waiter showed up with the menus and took their drink orders.  
  
“Coffee,” Heero grunted. “Black.”  
  
“Regular or decaf?”  
  
“Something between 100 and 130 octane.”  
  
“Jet fuel, got it. And for you, sir?” he addressed Duo.  
  
“An extra large Mountain Dew.”  
  
“For _breakfast_?”  
  
“I’m American.”  
  
“If you say so.” The waiter scribbled on his pad.  
  
Duo folded his arms and laid his head down on the table miserably. Quatre ordered Earl Grey and Trowa followed Heero’s lead and got coffee. The waiter then left and allowed them to make their breakfast selections.  
  
Duo leaned over and whispered to Heero, “Doesn’t our waiter look like Tom Green?”  
  
“No. And furthermore, did you brush your teeth this morning?”  
  
“Uhh . . . I guess I forgot.”  
  
Heero grimaced and waved his hand in front of his face. “Good _God_. Run a buzzard off a shit wagon.”  
  
“Dragon breath,” Trowa murmured.  
  
Duo and Heero gazed at him. “Pardon?”  
  
“Dragon breath,” he repeated.  
  
“I always called it Morning Mouth,” Quatre said.  
  
“More like Monster Mouth,” Heero reiterated.  
  
“I swear, our waiter IS Tom Green! His name tag said ‘Tom’, too! I wonder if he’ll sing the Bum Song if I—”  
  
“Duo, could you _please_ not talk? You’re making the wallpaper curl.”  
  
“Speak for yourself, Mr Nocturnal Flatulence.”  
  
The waiter who bore an uncanny resemblance to Tom Green showed up and took their orders. Quatre decided on French toast and a banana, Trowa chose the cardboard-flavored oatmeal, Heero was content with lox and a bagel, and Duo ordered two of everything.  
  
“—the pancake plate with the side of bacon, two hash browns (scattered smothered covered diced chunked flipped tricked pimped and punked), the Belgian waffle plate with a side of bacon, a whole grapefruit with sugar, toast with butter, a side of bacon, toast with jelly, toast with cinnamon, a side of bacon, toast with peanut butter, an apple bran muffin, a side of bacon, a steak and cheese omelet _. . ._ ”  
  
The other three died a little bit inside. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

They met up with Wufei in the bungalow after breakfast, which was even more of a disaster in full light. Wufei was attempting to straighten it up out of shame for his compatriots.  
  
“You’re all a bunch of slovenly, filth-wallowing swine,” he declared when they entered. “Our first night here and you turn the whole place upside down. I’ll bet room service will take one look in here and tape it off like a crime scene.”  
  
Duo shrugged. “If anyone asks, we were just testing to make sure the structure’s sound.” And he hastily began to undress.  
  
Heero examined his surroundings with dismay. “Chang’s right, Maxwell. I can’t live in this sty. You’ve got to learn to take . . . um. Take . . .”  
  
“Duo!” Quatre cried. “It’s not polite to expose yourself!”  
  
“I’m just changin’ clothes. We’re all guys here.”  
  
“Excluding Winner,” said Wufei. “But he’s just saying that because his vagina is really sensitive today.”  
  
“Trowa, Wufei’s making fun of me again!”  
  
Trowa glanced up briefly. “Quatre, don’t whine. Wufei, knock it off. Duo, go change in the bathroom. Heero, quit staring before you give yourself a nosebleed.”  
  
Miraculously it worked: Quatre stuck his tongue out at Wufei. Wufei ignored him. Heero looked askance and wondered about himself. Duo skulked into the bathroom and made sure he slammed the door hard enough to dismount the hinges.  
  
“Well,” said Heero, “this vacation blows. I’m getting to work.” He pulled his laptop out of his suitcase and set it on the bureau, then dragged the TV stand over so he could use it as a chair. He began to type and ignored everything else around him.  
  
Trowa turned to Quatre. “So. What do you feel like doing?”  
  
“Something fun and dangerous and exciting.”  
  
“Like last night wasn’t enough?”  
  
“YOU’RE GONNA GET THE DANGEROUS PART IF YOU STAY IN THE SAME ROOM WITH HEERO!” Duo called from the bathroom.  
  
Heero looked up and nodded. “He’s right, you know. I’m a magnet for danger. There’ll be secret agents and mutant killing machines busting through the windows in fifteen minutes, so you’d better think about leaving soon.”  
  
Trowa and Quatre slowly began to inch their way toward the door.  
  
Duo emerged from the bathroom with a colorful towel thrown over his shoulder, dressed in swimming trunks bedecked with palm trees and pink dolphins, and proclaimed, “I’m headin’ out to the pool! Anyone wanna join me?”  
  
“Uh, Quatre wants to go parasailing,” said Trowa. “Isn’t that right, Quatre?”  
  
“What? Oh. Yes! Paras _. . ._ paraceiling. Simply have to. It’s my favorite hobby. So sorry, Duo. We’ll be back later!”  
  
Then the two bolted out of the bungalow so fast they left Trowa-and-Quatre-shaped smoke clouds where they’d been standing.  
  
Duo turned. “What about you, Wufei? Cannonball off the diving board?”  
  
Wufei blinked. “Relax? _Here_? Are you insane? I’m heading out to reconnoiter the whole island. Something isn’t right about this place, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”  
  
“Right,” said Duo. “Tell Scooby and the Gang I said hi.”  
  
“Up yours, Maxwell. Nice shorts, by the way. I didn’t know it was Pride Week at Saint Abalone. Congratulations on coming out.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with these shorts!”  
  
“Of course not. Just keep telling yourself that.”  
  
And Wufei departed, leaving Duo standing there in his festive, flamboyant attire with Heero, who was typing on his laptop. In addition to his ammunition, Duo also wished he had asked Heero to leave the laptop that was more of a lifetop at home. He sighed, realizing that the situation was practically hopeless, but decided to give it a try anyway.  
  
“Hey, Hee—”  
  
“No.”  
  
That one went over as well as Pavarotti jumping hurdles. So, with his heart bruised and his feelings irreparably hurt, Duo dried his tears with the end of his braid and left Heero alone in the bungalow.  
  
Heero paused, poised, and listened to the footsteps fade. When he was sure that Duo was gone, he slammed the laptop closed and jumped up. He thumped his silver attaché case on the bed and clicked it open, taking out a pair of rhinestone-studded, horn-rimmed, shiny black sunglasses that were so dark and so slick and so cheap that they could have inspired a ZZ Top song. He slowly slipped them on, heaved a long sigh of relief, and marched out of the bungalow door like a runway model at Paris Fashion Week.

* * *

Trowa sighed contentedly as he lay down on his beach towel and folded his hands beneath his head. “This is the life.”  
  
“You said that about the hotdog stand,” said Quatre as he slopped sunscreen all over himself.  
  
“I keep my expectations low. Less disappointment that way.”  
  
The sun was hot and the sand was scorching and the ocean was practically boiling out on Saint Abalone beach where we find our two heroes, Trowa and Quatre, stripped down to their swimming trunks and ready to do a whole lot of nothing for the next three hours.  
  
“That was some nice parasailing you did back there, Quat.”  
  
“Yeah. Until I hit the water going sixty miles an hour.”  
  
“Still, for someone’s who’s never parasailed before, you were pretty good. I hope you didn’t get any salt water in your va—” Trowa stopped himself short.  
  
“My what?”  
  
“Your va _. . ._ vaaaaaa. Vvvvvvvibrant blue eyes.” Somewhere on earth a crowd cheered.  
  
“Why, how thoughtful of you, Trowa. No, I didn’t get any water in my eyes, thank you for asking.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“I’m flattered you think my eyes are vibrant.” Quatre smiled brightly and rolled over onto his belly, swinging his legs in the air. “What else do you see? I’m curious.”  
  
Trowa turned his head and looked like a small animal in the headlights of a monster truck. “Wha _. . ._ y-your eyes?”  
  
“Yeah! Look into them and tell me what you see.” He batted his eyes flirtatiously.  
  
Trowa swallowed dryly. “I see _. . ._ endless oceans of _. . ._ water.”  
  
Quatre giggled. “You’re funny, Trowa.”  
  
“I’m a clown. It’s in the job description.”  
  
“You know, I’ve never asked you this before: what’s it like working in the circus and performing before hundreds of people?”  
  
“Well, it’s a lot like being a prostitute, only the pay is much worse. You see, when a carnie falls in love with a zoo _. . ._ ”  
  
And that was how it happened. Quiet discourse on a warm, peaceful beach, surrounded by sparkling blue water and miles and miles of nowhere in every direction. Given all that had happened the night before, it would only have been a matter of time before the lack of sleep caught up to them both and they skipped off into Dream Land. But it caught up to them sooner than planned, and in one of the worst places to fall asleep:  
  
The sun.

_**Three hours later** _

Quatre sat up groggily and yawned. That’s strange, he didn’t remember falling asleep. Of course, no one does. Suddenly a fiery sensation seized him, like a sheet of hot metal being pressed into his skin, and he looked down at his body _. . ._

* * *

Ten billion light years from Earth, a big green alien by the name of Maldaar was sitting down to tea when a human scream reverberated through his space pod, rupturing his entire collection of Swarovski crystal kittens.  
  
“,” he muttered.

* * *

Duo was the first one back in the bungalow that evening. It looked as if gangsters had ransacked the place and then decided to blow up any evidence, but then he remembered that it had been left like that that morning. Now endowed with a ravishing new tan, Duo was relaxing on the one bed that still had legs beneath it, playing with the Bug Out Bob squeeze toy he had won from the claw machine at the arcade when suddenly the door opened, and Trowa and Quatre limped into the room, letting out little meeps and moans with every step.  
  
Duo’s jaw dropped and he stared. “You _assholes_. I can’t believe you went to Hell without tellin’ me!”  
  
Quatre had the worst of it by far, even though Arabians have thrived beneath the sun’s harsh rays for thousands and thousands of years without damage. Quatre was different because he happened to have just enough European blood in him to get a sunburn from anything brighter than a 75 watt light bulb. The sunscreen had been broiled off of his skin after the first half hour like butter on a sizzling ham. But it was too late to blame genetics—the boy was burnt to the hue of a boiled lobster, at least on the back of his body; he had fallen asleep on his stomach.  
  
Trowa didn’t look nearly as bad as Quatre, although he was definitely red enough to be used as a stop sign. At least the ugly bruise on his face from last night had been roasted over like the rest of his skin on his front side. His lips looked like two pieces of overcooked bacon. The two of them were going to have the weirdest tan lines in a few days.  
  
Wufei arrived at the bungalow a few minutes behind Trowa and Quatre, and after a brief lecture about skin cancer and narcolepsy, had gone diving into his duffel bag in search of a lotion he said would help ease the pain. Duo had run down to the dining hall to fetch some ice since that was about all he was capable of doing without fucking things up.  
  
“OWCH! That hurts!” Quatre cried.  
  
“Hold still! You whine worse than a woman,” Wufei snapped as he applied the clear lotion to Quatre’s already blistered shoulders.  
  
Trowa was sitting on the unbroken bed, rubbing the gel onto his chest. “What is this stuff anyway, Wufei? I hope it’s got morphine in it.”  
  
“Ancient Chinese secret.”  
  
Trowa just barely smiled and tried not to be surprised that Wufei did indeed have a sense of humor. A small one, just small enough to be frightening, but a sense of humor nonetheless.  
  
At that moment, there was the sound of somebody crashing into the door _. . ._ and he-or-she very nearly took it down. The bolts on the hinges popped out and the door frame cracked.  
  
“Damn it,” Wufei muttered. “Maxwell forgot how to use a doorknob again.”  
  
There came another full-bodied crash followed by a burst of raucous laughter. The three young men stared as the door finally slammed open to reveal a very drunken Heero Yuy dressed in nothing but a lizard skin loin cloth, several animal tooth necklaces, and a slew of red paint streaked across his bare chest.  
  
Quatre, Trowa and Wufei were speechless.  
  
Heero grinned lopsidedly, holding up a coconut cup in one hand and a cooler full of bottles in the other. He was swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane, and his eyes couldn’t seem to stop crossing themselves.  
  
“GUYS. You GUYS,” he slurred. “You guides gotta gine summa my conocacut. Id’ll sock yer knocks off.” He had only managed to take one step forward before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed on his face.  
  
Duo appeared at the door, breathless, with a bucket of ice. He stepped through the threshold and over Heero’s body. “Sorry it took so long, but the door was locked in the vending area so I had to go around and—” He stopped in his tracks and turned around. “—Jesus Christ. When did this happen?”  
  
“Just now,” said Wufei as he stood from the mattress on the floor and went over to kneel by Heero’s side.  
  
“Holy shit. Is he _drunk_?” Duo set the ice on the nightstand and went to help Wufei drag their inebriated comrade onto the unbroken bed.  
  
“Is he conscious?” as Quatre as Duo leaned down close to Heero’s face. The intoxicated pilot slowly came to. He saw Duo’s face and grinned wider than anyone had ever seen Heero Yuy grin.  
  
“Duuuuo!” he brayed, and Duo had to turn his head when his eyes began to water. “My tomochadi chomodotty tomodaaaaa—”  
  
“God _damn_ , hide the matches! Heero, how much have you had to _drink,_ man?”  
  
Heero struggled to sit up. It was like watching a turtle try to get off its back. “Noddie nuff. Needa refill. My noconut’s empty. Les doe gown to the store. Don’ worry, I’ll drive.”  
  
“Dude, you couldn’t even find the _door_ ,” said Duo, grabbing Heero’s shoulders and pinning him down. “You’re grounded, buddy. Wufei, help me get all this shit offa him."  
  
Wufei studied the sloppy red paint markings on Heero’s body with a dark expression. “I don’t like this. These marks mean something bad.”  
  
“Ya like ‘em?” Heero babbled. “These nice people I met an we went to the junkle like Axel Rose an they were havvin a loo-wow pardy but I was the best so they pained me like one a their own an can we go to the store now? I can drive.”  
  
This time Duo had to struggle to keep Heero down, but Wufei decided he’d heard enough and struck Heero right on his pressure point, effectively immobilizing him. A dumb look crossed Heero’s face, and before he flopped down unconscious he muttered, “Watch the _. . ._ pineapples.”  
  
There was a brief silence. Duo and Wufei looked at each other.  
  
“Well. I guess that’s the end of that.”  
  
“Until he wakes up. God. His hangover’s gonna be so bad even _I’ll_ be puking,” said Duo. He stood with a groan. “Here, darlings. Your ice.”  
  
“Thanks,” Quatre said as he took the bucket from Duo and turned to the other sunburn victim sitting on the mattress. “Hey Trowa, why don’t you lie down and let me rub ice cubes on your chest.”  
  
Trowa’s eyes slowly widened and widened until he resembled a petrified owl. Then he abruptly stood to his feet and went into the bathroom, closing the door. They all heard the lock click into place. Wufei shook his head. Quatre looked confused.  
  
Duo, who had been taking a closer look at the red symbols painted on Heero’s chest, rubbed his finger through the paint, sniffed it, licked it, smacked his lips thoughtfully, then began to spit like a spastic viper. “Oh my God, it’s blood!” he cried.  
  
Quatre gasped.  
  
Wufei scowled. “Are you sure?”  
  
Duo leaned down and dragged his tongue across Heero’s clavicle while the others watched in horror. “Oh yeah, it’s blood alright.”  
  
“Don’t lick it, Maxwell, you dumb bastard!” Wufei shouted. “It could be infected blood!”  
  
“It could be _menstrual_ blood,” Quatre added, and everyone stared at him. He frowned and pointed at them warningly. “The first person who says ‘vagina’ dies.”  
  
“I did some research at the civic center today,” Wufei muttered, changing the subject. “The natives once believed that a mighty volcano god ruled this island, and that if they did not appease him, he would destroy them all.”  
  
“Huh. Nice guy,” said Duo.  
  
“Once a year the natives would hold a celebration to honor the volcano god’s mercy, and select a virgin to be sacrificed in the fiery pit of Mount Killamangina, the largest volcano on the island.” Wufei looked down at Heero grimly. “They would mark their sacrifice by stripping him (or her) naked and painting the volcano god’s name on his (or her) body.”  
  
Duo and Quatre stared.  
  
“In blood.”  
  
Quatre screamed in horror. Duo screamed also, but it was with laughter.  
  
“What the hell is so funny, Maxwell?” roared Wufei.  
  
“Hee-! Heer-!” Duo gasped, eyes watering. “Heero’s a virgin! Ah-haaaaaaaa! Ha ahaha! Hahaha! Aha! Aha! Haaaaaaaaa!” He slid to his knees and pounded the bed with his fist, wheezing and guffawing. The bathroom door opened and Trowa looked around worriedly.  
  
“It’s not something to laugh about, numbnuts!” Wufei shouted, punching the American in the back of his head. “In three days the sacrifice must be carried to the top of Mount Killamangina and tossed into the molten lava, or else the volcano god will unleash his fury and the whole island will erupt. We’ve got to leave this place _now_!”  
  
“We don’t know if that’s true,” Trowa countered from the bathroom door. “For all we know it could be a joke, or a lighthearted tradition that the native islanders use to boost the tourist industry. It’s not like Heero got lost in the jungle somewhere and met a tribe of natives who took him to the liquor store. Where did he get that cooler?”  
  
“Maybe he picked it up on his way back,” Duo suggested, rubbing the back of his head.  
  
“All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t panic over something that we only marginally know about. How about we just dump Heero in the bathtub for now and keep this to ourselves, yeah?”  
  
“You’re so awesome, Trowa,” Quatre gushed, glossy-eyed and blushing.  
  
“You’re wrong, Barton,” said Wufei. “I’m telling you, we need to get out of here tonight. Besides, there’s no way Maxwell’s going to be able to keep Yuy’s secret to himself.”  
  
“What’s Heero’s secret?”  
  
“He’s a virgin.”  
  
Trowa didn’t change expressions. “That’s the funniest shit I’ve ever heard.”


	3. The Wicked Whiff of the West

Just before dawn the next morning, Heero Yuy woke up naked in a bathtub of cold water with a hangover that felt like someone had beaten him in the head with a pipe all night long. He sat up with sudden fear and began to pat all over his body, looking for stitches or gaping wounds or anything that would tell him one or two of his vital organs were on their way to the Philippines. He found his body still intact and sighed.  
  
He looked to his left and noticed Trowa Barton sitting on the toilet lid in a hideous green pair of swimming trunks and looking as if he had thrown himself face down on one of Heavyarms’ verniers. He was either sleeping or dead, lying with his head back against the tank and his arms hanging limp at his sides.  
  
“Hey. Trowa.”  
  
The sunburnt young man opened his eyes. He was alive after all. “Hey,” he murmured.  
  
“Trowa, why am I naked in a tub of cold water?”  
  
“You came home drunk. Duo said he could stand the farts, but drew the line at the barfs. So we dumped you in here.”  
  
“What are _you_ doing in here then?”  
  
“Sleeping.”  
  
“. . . Why?”  
  
Trowa stared dully. “Because I was tired.”  
  
Heero couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “What happened to your skin?”  
  
“Sunburn.”  
  
“. . . It looks pretty bad.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
Heero stood up groggily, grabbed a towel from the hanger and wrapped it around his waist. He walked out of the bathroom and promptly tripped over Quatre, who had been lying just outside the door and had apparently slept there the entire night. The petit pilot let out a yelp and Heero went hurtling to the floor with a cry of “FUCKIN—” before impacting.  
  
On the other side of the room, Duo and Wufei sat up in their beds.  
  
“What the shit was that?” Wufei hissed, his hair in rollers and cucumbers over his eyes.  
  
“Somebody drop the firewood?” Duo yawned. He had been dreaming about firewood.  
  
Heero lifted himself onto his hands and knees and turned to look at what he had tripped over. Quatre lay whimpering on his stomach, wearing a hideous pink pair of swimming trunks and looking as if he had thrown himself ass down on one of Sandrock’s verniers. Heero wanted to barf all over him, but his gag reflexes were shot and there was no way he could purge without being awesomely sick first.  
  
“Oh. It’s only Yuy,” said Wufei, lying back down.  
  
“Mm. Bonfires. Gotcha,” Duo said, rolling over.  
  
“Nghk,” Quatre grunted. “Heero? Are you okay?”  
  
“No. I just embedded my corneas into the floor. How about you?”  
  
“Your toenails stabbed me in the ribs. You really ought to trim them sometime. I think I’m bleeding.” Pause. “Is Trowa still in the bathroom?”  
  
Heero hung his head. “Yes.”  
  
“Is he alright?”  
  
“Trowa was never alright, Quatre, you know that.”  
  
“Right. I forgot.”  
  
“Are you using the mattress?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good.” Heero crawled onto the legless bed that belonged to the Young Men of the Charbroiled Skin and went to sleep.

**_Three hours later_ **

Heero awoke to the feeling of somebody crawling circles around him on the mattress, and he knew who that somebody was without even opening his eyes. “Duo, cut it out or I’m going to be sick,” he grumbled.  
  
“Oh, good, you’re awake!” said Duo cheerfully, pausing in his tenth lap. “My knees were starting to get raw. You wanna go get some breakfast? The scrambled eggs are really good. I like mine with cheese and ketchup. I'll go get ya some if you want.”  
  
Heero could feel his gorge rising. "No. Go away."  
  
“Aw, c’mon! What’re you gonna do, sleep the whole vacation away? This is the best time to go surfing!”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Dammit, Heero, I know you’re capable of enjoying yourself, so get up and start having fun!” Duo began to bounce impatiently up and down on the mattress. The sensation was rather like being on a freighter during high seas, and Heero was suddenly on the verge of Code Green Seasickness. He cringed and curled up into a ball.  
  
“Duo. Stop it. Now,” he snarled between clenched teeth.  
  
Blithely ignorant of the mortal danger he was in, Duo ripped Heero’s towel off and began to wave it at him like a matador, bouncing even harder. “ _Toro! Toro!_ C’mon, Heero, you be the bull, I’ll be the piñata! Wake up, Bulldozer! Don’t make me stick a harpoon in your—”  
  
Heero’s fist shot out and caught Duo right in the throat; he made a sound like a bagpipe being run over by a cheese grater and tumbled backward into the nightstand. He didn’t get up again, but he wheezed with each breath he took, so that meant he was still alive. Not that Heero cared. His head was throbbing like a hammered thumb and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to crack his skull open to relieve some of the pain. Nothing was within arm’s reach though, so it looked like he would have to settle for two aspirin instead.  
  
Suddenly a pair of jeans landed on Heero’s naked body, and he looked up to see Wufei glaring down at him.  
  
“Get dressed and come with me,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”  
  
Heero gave the same response he had given to Duo when propositioned about surfing, and Wufei crossed his arms.  
  
“Fine. You can lie there and suffer while I go get some coffee and a nice big bowl of Get the Fuck Up Before I Kick You in the Nuts.”  
  
Heero gave Wufei the nastiest look he could muster before sitting up groggily and pulling on his jeans.

**_In the dining hall_ **

Wufei Chang was actually a gentle, peaceful and sensitive young man about 33.3 percent of the time, but that was only because humans naturally spend 33.3 percent of their lives sleeping. In any case, Wufei Chang wasn’t a complete bastard all of the time; sometimes he was just a dick or a sonofabitch, or in worse cases, a motherfucker. But after threatening Heero out of bed and sitting him down at a table, Wufei slipped into one of his rare dick moments.  
  
“How’s your liver holding out, Yuy?”  
  
“Substantially. I’ll be around for another Christmas at least.”  
  
Wufei nodded and ordered Heero a cup of coffee, then turned to him seriously. “I think you ought to know that you are undoubtedly in terrible danger. Do you remember what you did last night at all, where you went, who you were with?”  
  
“Last . . . night?” Heero scrunched his face up as if it hurt to think.  
  
“Alright, maybe that’s asking too much. How about yesterday? Can you remember anything from yesterday?”  
  
Wufei waited for a few moments but apparently Heero had nothing more to add, so he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of happy thoughts like war and explosions and wrapping his hands around somebody’s throat and just shaking back and forth until their spinal column snapped like a—  
  
“Oh, wait, I think I remember something about a man . . .”  
  
Wufei looked up hopefully just in time to see Heero shake his head and frown.  
  
“No. No, that wasn’t it. Never mind. Sorry.”  
  
Wufei let out an impatient sigh and stood. “Fine. If anything comes back to you, let me know, got it? Your life could very well depend on it.”  
  
Heero placidly sipped his coffee, by this point having grown used to the inexplicable bouts of irrational, military-induced paranoia his comrade seemed to suffer. “Where are you running off to?”  
  
“I’m not running off, I’m patrolling. Some things just aren’t adding up. I’ll meet back with you around ten thirty. When you leave here, go straight to the bungalow and don’t let anyone out of your sight.”  
  
“Okay, but I might have to kill one of them.”  
  
“That’s fine. Just don’t let the others go wandering off alone.”  
  
“Sure. Whatever you say.”  
  
“Good.” And Wufei exited the dining hall.  
  
Heero rubbed his temples and asked Tom Green to bring him some Advil. Six cups of coffee and nineteen caplets later, he was feeling almost alive. He might have even been in a good mood by the time he left the dining hall, but all hopes of a rare thing like that went out the window when he saw a familiar American walking toward him up the path, looking rather guilty and slightly terrified.  
  
They both stopped when they saw each other. Even at ten yards away, the tension was palpable.  
  
“Uh,” Duo started in a hoarse voice as he rubbed his bruised neck, “I wanted to say I’m sorry about this morning. I kinda hhhhhn . . . forgot you were hungover, y’know.”  
  
Heero nodded. “That’s fine. I’m sorry you made me have to punch you in the throat.”  
  
“Apology accepted.”  
  
Heero nodded again.  
  
Duo abruptly frowned. “Hey, wait, _I’m_ the one who got injured. How is that _my_ fault? You got drunk on your own, that was _your_ fault. Why do I gotta take the blame for something that you did to yourself to make you sick when all I was trying to do was be nice and wake you up so you could—”  
  
Heero charged without warning. Duo let out a shriek and tore away from him as fast as he could, off of the path, around the corner of another bungalow, and behind a cluster of palm trees. Heero didn’t chase him far; he only wanted to scare him away. When the sounds of stampede faded into the distance, Heero brushed himself off and walked back to the bungalow.

* * *

Wufei was effectively staking out a shady-looking tiki shack near the beach when suddenly he caught sight of a figure running up ahead, approaching at a speed that looked capable of breaking the sound barrier. He casually stuck out his foot and braced; the hairy running blur inevitably tripped over Wufei’s foot and would have probably placed a hairy running dent into the sandy turf had Wufei not already known who it was.  
  
He grabbed Duo Maxwell by the shoulders and shook him roughly for a few seconds, just to see if he could roll a seven in the pair of dice that constituted the American’s brain. It must have worked, because Duo seemed to snap out of whatever state of adrenaline-driven panic he had slipped into and looked around as if surprised where he was.  
  
“Wufei? What are you doing out here?”  
  
“I should ask you the same. You didn’t see Heero did y—”  
  
Duo blanched and was suddenly clinging to Wufei like a koala on the last eucalyptus tree on earth. He was mumbling and squeaking softly. Wufei didn’t appreciate the gesture.  
  
“What the-? Maxwell, get the hell off of me before I bodily remove you.”  
  
“He-Heero. I saw him. I _saw_ him, Chang! He came at me like a rabid dog, hackles raised and everything.”  
  
“Heero doesn’t have hackles, stupid.”  
  
“ _Those_ were hackles, man. I thought I was a-goners.”  
  
Nearby people were starting to stare. Wufei twitched uncomfortably and considered using the Five-Point Palm Exploding-Heart Technique as a means of solving the situation, but he could never kill Duo Maxwell. So mercifully.  
  
“Rabid hackles, eh? You must have done something to piss him off.”  
  
“I tried to apologize, but _I’m_ the one who got a frickin’ fist to the windpipe.”  
  
Wufei gently pried Duo off of his person and looked at him seriously. “Maxwell,” he said, “you’re a nice guy—”  
  
Due grinned.  
  
“—but you have an obnoxious streak a MILE. WIDE.” Wufei held up his arms as far apart as they could be without being dislocated to indicate to Duo just how large of a streak it was. “You’re going to have to start thinking. Especially before opening that yacking yap of yours.”  
  
“Hey, that's great illiteracy right there, Wufei! You should totally be a writer or something!  
  
And then Wufei got the same look in his eyes that Heero had right before he charged him, and it was enough to tell Duo that this conversation was over. He walked away with swift and dignified silence.

* * *

Heero walked into the bungalow to find Trowa and Quatre, looking freshly steamed and dressed in the cheap hotel bathrobes, sitting on the legless bed. Quatre had his robe pulled down around his waist while Trowa peeled flakes of skin off his back. They looked like a pair of roasted, hairless monkeys grooming one another.  
  
“Look, this one’s the size of a Dorito,” said the taller monkey, showing his mate the piece of crispy skin he had pulled from his back.  
  
Heero cleared his throat loudly and tried to conceal his unease.  
  
“Oh, hi, Heero,” Quatre chirped. The exfoliation job was obviously cheering him up. “Duo left here as soon as he got his voice back. Did you meet him yet? He was on his way to the dining hall to talk with you.”  
  
“Yeah, I met him.”  
  
“. . . and?”  
  
“I sold him to cannibals.”  
  
“Heero!”  
  
“Don’t worry, they said they’d butcher him properly. Might end up in a Jewish deli, you know.”  
  
“You are so mean to that poor boy! Why, Duo was so upset that I thought he was going to start crying. We were all planning on going to the aquarium today and doing something together for once, and now you’ve gone and botched things up. You go back out there this instant and find Duo and bring him back, or else!”  
  
Heero crossed his arms. “Or else _what_ , Twinky?”  
  
Trowa suddenly ripped a sheet of skin off of Quatre’s shoulder blade and said, “I bet we could make a fortune selling dermal cereal to those cannibals. This one’s real crunchy.”  
  
“Hm, or maybe pork rinds. Except they’d be people rinds.”  
  
“Or Frosted Skin Flakes. I think it’s a plausible investment.”  
  
Heero didn’t need to hear or see any more; he turned around and went to find Duo.

* * *

Duo was sitting dejectedly on the diving board of the pool at Captain Billy’s Bungalow Resort, sighing every now and then and hunching lower and lower until he seemed to have his chin on his lap.  
  
This wasn’t exactly how one was supposed to spend a vacation. Vacations meant parties on cruise ships, volleyball, surfing, babe-watching, hitting the casinos, getting drunk at luaus, going to restaurants and water parks and all kinds of fun stuff. Vacations shouldn’t be spent fleeing for your life from friends who would just as soon maim you as shake your hand.  
  
Duo sighed again and looked around. No one was at the pool; anyone with half a brain was down at the shore, living it up on the white sand and blue surf. He closed his eyes and hung his head in defeat. Some vacation _this_ was turning out to be.  
  
He was so engrossed in his own angst that he failed to notice someone creep up the ladder and walk soundlessly to the end of the board. That someone raised his foot, placed it on Duo’s back, and shoved him clear off the diving board.  
  
Duo screeched, hit the water face first, and came up with a sputter. He began to scream curses so salty the pool water was in danger of going brackish. Heero watched him from the diving board with his hands in his pockets. Duo was not amused.  
  
“YUY!” he screamed. “YOU BASTARD SON OF A FUCK!”  
  
“That’s a bit redundant, don’t you think?”  
  
“WHY DID YOU DO THAT? MY CLOTHES ARE _SOAKED_!”  
  
“They needed a wash, anyway,” Heero replied, stepping down the ladder and meeting Duo, who was dragging himself out of the pool and looking for all the world like a half-drowned cat.  
  
“Listen,” Heero said, “sorry for running you off earlier. I just really hate it when people apologize to me.”  
  
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind next time I try to be nice to you,” Duo mumbled, wringing out his braid.  
  
“Quatre said something about touring an aquarium today. Thought what the hell, I’ll go with you losers.”  
  
Duo looked up and blinked. “You? And us? Together?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Duo stared blankly. “Y’know, I _would_ have been more inclined to go had not somebody _shoved_ me into the pool.”  
  
Heero, in the act of leaving, turned around and said over his shoulder. “So? You look terrible dry or wet.” And he walked off.  
  
Duo gnashed his teeth in annoyance and walked with soggy steps back toward the bungalow. “ _You look terrible dry or wet,_ ” he mimicked. “Who are _you_ to talk, you cold-blooded lizard? Kick _me_ into the pool, wouldja? I oughta bust a cap in your ass. Nobody treats Duo Maxwell like garbage!”  
  
He wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and crashed right into a cluster of metal trash cans.

* * *

Wufei opened the bungalow door, entered, closed it, turned around, and stopped short. He blinked a few times just to make sure he hadn’t lost his mind, but the image was still there:  
  
Duo Maxwell, armed with a hairdryer and a can of pine-scented Glade, was alternating between spraying himself all over with the Glade and using the hairdryer to dry his clothes.  
  
Wufei coughed loudly and Duo jumped, shutting off the hairdryer and looking rather embarrassed. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.”  
  
Wufei crossed his arms and gave him a Look. You know which look I’m talking about: one eyebrow cocked way high up and the other down low, nostrils flared slightly in disgust, upper lip curled at one side like an Elvis Presley impersonator. Yeah, the one you’re making now.  
  
“Maxwell,” he began, “why don’t you take yourself down to the laundromat, throw yourself in a dryer with a bag of potpourri, and let yourself baste for about ten minutes, hm? It’d be a lot quicker.” He sniffed and made a face. “And you wouldn’t smell like a burning pine forest, either.”  
  
“I was a little pressed for time.”  
  
“Really. Well, I ran into Barton and Whiner outside and they said that they’re dragging everyone out to the aquarium. I think it would be a wise strategy from now on if we stick togeth—” He stopped and sniffed.  
  
Duo blinked. “Stick together what?”  
  
Wufei stepped a little closer to Duo, took a deep whiff, then wrinkled his face and covered his nose. “ _Damn_ , Maxwell!” he exclaimed. “What the _hell_ is that wicked funk on you? Did you crawl into a rotting carcass or something?”  
  
Duo scowled darkly. “I fell into some garbage cans.”  
  
“What was in them, medical waste? Did you see any biohazard warnings anywhere? Holy shit, I think I need to go put on a hazmat suit.”  
  
Wufei evacuated the bungalow in a state of great disdain, and Duo, sulking, followed a few dozen yards behind him.

* * *

Quatre looked up from the Tourist’s Guide to Saint Abalone Island Attractions pamphlet in time to see Wufei stomp into view with Duo trailing behind him like a homeless dog. Heero and Trowa stopped their game of hopscotch and the five vacationers assembled on the walk outside of the aquarium.  
  
Trowa paused, sniffing the air. “Is there a landfill on fire somewhere?”  
  
Wufei pointed to Duo, who made an evil face and took a step backward.  
  
Quatre said to Heero, “Glad to see you got Duo back from the cannibals.”  
  
Heero shrugged. “They didn’t want him, anyway. Too much hair to digest.”  
  
“Thanks a lot, guys,” Duo snapped. “I’m really feelin’ the love today.”  
  
Quatre turned his attention back to the tourist’s guide. “Okay, the Saint Abalone Aquarium,” he read. “Says here, _World’s largest array of tropical fish on earth. View exquisite sea creatures from the Seven Seas and then sample them at our four star restaurant where we serve a variety of cuisines including lobster, squid, and giant clam_ —ugh! Disgusting.”  
  
“What’s the matter, Quatre? Not into seafood?” Heero asked.  
  
“Absolutely not. I’m a vegetarian.”  
  
“Then I guess seamen doesn’t count,” Duo chuckled.  
  
Trowa did an astounding impression of a bleached bed sheet.  
  
“What was that, Duo?” Quatre asked.  
  
“Nothin’.”  
  
“Alright,” Wufei grumped, “let’s just go look at the stupid-ass fish already.”  
  
Duo blinked rapidly. “Wow. They have fish that look like asses?”  
  
“SHUT UP, DUO,” said everybody else.

* * *

There _had_ been a rather large throng of people lined up outside the aquarium, but after Duo got in line, the crowds thinned tremendously and the ticket vendor let them in for half price. Probably because the vendor’s eyes were watering and his main focus seemed to be on surviving the unbearable stench that invaded his nostrils. Duo took no notice.  
  
Once inside, Trowa and Quatre veered off on their own while Heero pulled Duo aside and whispered, “Have you ever caught wind of burning garbage?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That's what you smell like.”  
  
Duo set his jaw stubbornly. “You know,” he stated, “back when I was in Maxwell Church, I got in trouble for beating up a couple kids—and I mean beating them so bad their own _mothers_ wouldn’t recognize ‘em—because they said I stunk. I went to Sister Helen and she said I didn’t smell bad and she hugged me and told me she liked me just the way I was.”  
  
“And where is she now?”  
  
“She’s dead.”  
  
“Case in point.”  
  
Duo, nose to nose with Heero, shook his fist warningly. “One of these days, Yuy. POW.”  
  
Wufei walked past them and snapped, “Will you two stop fucking each other with your eyes and get a move on? The barracudas are waiting.”

* * *

In a nearby room lit by black-lights and blue neon bulbs, Quatre stared at the multicolored schools of tropical fish like he’d never seen them before (he hadn’t), oohing and ahhing and gushing at everything that swam by. Trowa looked bored out of mind, but looking bored out of his mind constituted for 93 percent of Trowa’s facial expressions anyway. He could have actually been as excited as his companion. _Could_ have. He really wasn’t.  
  
Quatre gasped softly, pointing to a lionfish and tugging on Trowa’s sleeve. “Look,” he whispered. “Isn’t that one just beautiful?”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“I’ve never seen fish like this before. You just don’t get this kind of variety on the colonies. More in one room than I think I’ve seen in my entire life! I didn’t know there were so many!”  
  
“They’re just fish, Quatre.”  
  
“Oh my gosh! Look at that one!” The blond grabbed hold of his tall friend’s hand and pulled him toward a huge tank filled with colorful coral and exotic looking sea creatures. Trowa remained silent as Quatre continued to wow and babble on about undersea rock formations and anemones and seahorses and jellyfish and lots of other things that Trowa wasn’t paying attention to because Quatre hadn’t let go of his hand yet. The Heavyarms pilot was appropriately sweating bullets.  
  
“—and that’s why coral harvesting is really destroying the earth’s oceans. Did you know that coral is actually an animal?”  
  
Trowa said zilch.  
  
“I like that flowery-looking one over there. See it? The other fish seem to like it, too. It sure is pretty in this light, wouldn’t you agree? The glow that comes off of it is just gorgeous, and all this blue water reflecting on the walls . . . I feel like a mermaid, except the ‘maid’ part, of course. I think I could stay here forever. You know . . .” Quatre looked up at Trowa with sparkling, watery moon-eyes. “I think this is a very romantic place.”  
  
Trowa’s face almost slid off. He glanced quickly around the room as if searching for an escape route.  
  
“Don’t _you_ think so, Trowa?”  
  
“Uh. Romantic? Sure.”  
  
“Trowa . . .”  
  
Though he didn’t want to, Trowa—with a nervous, cocked-eyebrow expression on his face—turned his head haltingly (like how you sometimes catch a glimpse of a hideously disfigured person and you want to somehow _look_ at them and _not_ look at them at the same time) and stared at Quatre. Quatre was gazing up at him with wide blue eyes full of adoration and loyalty as limitless as the universe, twinkling with the light of a million stars and burning with an ardor hotter than a thousand supernovas.  
  
This was all well and good and not really that big of a cosmic deal, but when Quatre slowly began to rise on his tiptoes and close his eyes while pursing his lips and leaning toward Trowa, some kind of atomic bomb detonated in Pilot 03’s brain.  
  
“Oh, look! More fish!” he said a little too enthusiastically, pulling his hand out of Quatre’s and walking to a tank on the far side of the room. He pretended to be extremely interested in the mussels at the bottom, but it wasn’t the object of his focus. In fact, he was completely aware of somebody’s brokenhearted expression he saw reflecting on the glass.  
  
“Uh . . . I’m going to go look at the troglodyte fossils.”  
  
And then Trowa left the room, but not before tripping over his own feet.  
  
Important note: Trowa is a tightrope walker.

* * *

It was amazing how quickly time passed at the aquarium, and soon the sun was starting to sink low in the western sky. Our five heroes regrouped in the central exhibit room of the aquarium and discussed their adventures.  
  
“I saw a shark that was THIS BIG,” Duo gushed, spreading his arms wide. “And it swam around like foom, foom, and then the keepers fed it, and it was all like ga-ROMROMRRARRROM! I was like, aaaaah! And then Heero got to feed the stingrays, and then we like went to the—”  
  
“Duo reeked everyone out,” Heero said. “No crowds. It was nice, if you didn’t mind the smell.”  
  
“I guess you get used to it after a while,” Trowa thought aloud.  
  
Wufei nodded to 03 and 04. “What about you two?”  
  
Trowa said nothing. Quatre looked the other way and muttered, “I saw a clownfish make an ass of himself in front of an angelfish.”  
  
“ _Was_ that an angelfish?” Trowa countered. “I thought it was a ravenous piranha.”  
  
“Even _I_ know that piranha are freshwater fish.”  
  
“Or they just like getting fresh with other fish.”  
  
An awkward silence descended. Heero, Duo and Wufei glanced around uneasily. Then Duo clapped his hands together and said brightly, “Well! Who’s up for some fine dining?”

* * *

When our four young heroes and one young Heero entered the restaurant known as Dead Lobster, many of the diners suddenly decided to ask for their checks and retreat posthaste while they could still keep their food down. Heero, Duo, Trowa, Quatre, and Wufei—who by now had grown used to the magnificent stench of fiery decay—sat down at a round table for five and looked at the menus.  
  
Duo began to grow a little self conscious as those diners brave enough to stay behind began to asphyxiate or unexpectedly pass out altogether, or possibly one followed by the other. He attempted to hide himself behind his menu until Wufei chastised him about slouching at the table.  
  
The boys went over their menus with curiosity.  
  
“I didn’t know snail shells were edible,” Heero murmured.  
  
“I didn’t know _snails_ were edible,” Wufei responded with disgust. “Leave it to _Le Français_ to turn garden pests into entrees.”  
  
“Tone down the hate, Chang. We’ve got a Frenchy at the table.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“Part French, anyway.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Everyone slowly turned to stare at Quatre, who tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and stopped sipping his Perrier long enough to snap, “ _Qu’est-ce que tu regardes là?_ ”  
  
Duo, examining what little he could decipher of the menu, suddenly mooed, “Ooh, this looks good! _El Pescado Muy Caliente_. Hm. Sounds Asian. I think I’ll get that.”  
  
Heero leaned over to Trowa and whispered, “What does that mean?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You’ve got Latin roots, don’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“What do you mean you don’t _know_? I _know_ you know what this means, Trowa. Don’t hide that Latin pride.”  
  
Trowa almost scowled. “The Very Hot Fish.”  
  
“Thanks, that’s all I needed to know.”  
  
“ _Salutatio_.”  
  
Wufei stared at his menu. “Uh-oh.”  
  
Trowa and Heero looked up. “Whuh-ut?”  
  
The three huddled like football players as Wufei read under his breath, “It says here in fine print near the _Caliente_ thing, _not recommended for people with a heart condition, allergic reactions, Jews, pregnant women, nursing women, women who may become pregnant, anything with a vagina_ —”  
  
“Quatre,” Heero and Trowa said automatically.  
  
“— _elderly people, people under the age of twelve_ , the list goes on.”  
  
Heero turned to Duo and tapped his shoulder. “You’re over twelve, right?”  
  
“Why? Do twelve-and-unders eat free or something? If so, I just turned eleven last week.”  
  
“You’re not Jewish, are you?”  
  
“Do I _look_ Jewish to you?”  
  
“No,” Heero said. “But you do say _oy_ a lot.”  
  
“No, I’m not Jewish.”  
  
“Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.” Heero turned back to the huddle.  
  
“Should we tell him?” Trowa asked, but Wufei and Heero shook their heads.  
  
“Nah. Let him find out for himself.”  
  
“Well, here’s what it’s made of,” Wufei read. “ _The South Pacific Devil Fish, marinated slowly in a special blend of Tabasco, jalapeño peppers, habanero powder, cayenne sauce, and paprika_.”  
  
“Why do they call it the Devil Fish?” Heero asked.  
  
“It’s probably hotter than hell,” Trowa replied.  
  
“And hurts like the devil going down.” Wufei grinned wickedly. “This is gonna be _great_.”  
  
The waiter appeared shortly and took their orders, and also asked if Duo had proper health insurance after he had made his selection, but Duo didn’t catch on. Wufei and Heero tried to hide their cackles.  
  
Since Quatre didn’t like seafood (or seamen), he ordered a salad and a baked potato while everyone else indulged themselves in the underwater delicacies: Trowa ordered the cardboard-flavored oyster soup, Heero decided on the octopus plate, and Wufei got the all-you-can-eat Blowfish Platter, Hooties not included.  
  
A short time later their meals arrived, and Heero motioned to the chefs standing by with a hose and fire extinguisher to go away. They shrugged and left, and everybody turned to watch Duo as he cut off a piece of his _Pescado Caliente_ and put it in his mouth, chatting pleasantly with Quatre and paying no attention.  
  
He chewed. He swallowed. Nothing happened. Everyone sighed in disappointment and began to eat their meals. Suddenly, Duo stopped talking, put his fork down, and placed a hand on his stomach.  
  
“Woah,” he muttered. “I don’t . . . feel so good.”  
  
“Are you sick?” Heero asked.  
  
“No,” Duo said, frowning. “It feels . . . it feels like I gotta—”  
  
A loud rumble started in his stomach, growing with volume as it traveled up his esophagus and into his throat. Duo’s eyes went wide as he opened his mouth and let out a fearsome, earth-shaking, window-rattling belch that sounded like a blaring tuba with bad vibrato. Three feet of solid fire roared from his mouth and went blasting across the table. Wufei literally darted out of the line of fire just as the flames hit a display of fishing net hanging from the rafters and set it ablaze.  
  
When the flames ceased to spout from his gullet, Duo grabbed his throat with both hands and—

* * *

The big green alien we now know as Maldaar was sitting in his space pod, constructing a castle out of glass playing cards when all of a sudden—

* * *

—screamed.

* * *

The cards on Maldaar’s table shattered into a million pieces as yet another human scream reverberated through his space pod, shattering, need I say, every glass object in his possession. Even the last card he held in his big green hand.  
  
He threw the shambles on the table and cursed, “!”

* * *

Duo jumped out of his seat, knocking his chair over.  
  
“JEEEZES MAMA HAAAAAAAAALP!” he bellowed. Diners began to scream and flee for their lives while others stared, unable to move. Duo whipped around desperately, looking for any source of cold liquid, and bolted toward the lobster tank.  
  
Heero stood and shouted, “DUO, DON’T!”  
  
But he had already ripped open the top and submerged himself into the tank up to his shoulders, gulping down mouthful after mouthful.  
  
Wufei sprang up from the table. “THAT’S _SALT_ WATER, MAXWELL!”  
  
Duo realized all too late, and to make matters worse, he had agitated the lobsters crawling around on the bottom. One reached up and clamped a pincher right on his eyelid. Duo burst from the tank, screaming in pain.  
  
“AUGH! AUGH! FUUUUCK! MY EYE, MY EYE! SOMEBODY GET IT OFF!”  
  
Trowa saw the opportunity and stood. “Allow me,” he said, and picked up a nearby chair, stepping toward the thrashing American.  
  
“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”  
  
And Trowa said, “Okay.”  
  
He lifted his leg, drew back for the pitch, and slammed Duo in the nose so hard that the lobster disintegrated. Duo was sent skidding backward a good three yards. But even a blow to the head like that couldn’t keep him down for long; with the lobster off his face, he began to run around frantically, smashing into tables, breaking glass, tripping over chairs, and ranting all the while for someone to douse the burning fire in his mouth.  
  
Finally, one of the chefs handed him an extinguisher and Duo put the hose down his throat and turned it on, then sighed in relief.  
  
With the madness concluded, at least for the moment, Quatre crawled out from beneath the table and looked up at Heero. “You might want to leave a big tip,” he suggested.

* * *

By the time the small fires had been put out and all the broken glass and water cleaned up, the moon was out and Duo was experiencing repercussions in the form of severe lower-gastrointestinal unrest from drinking the fire extinguisher fluid. His bowels were noisily disagreeing with the bromochloro . . . difluro . . . whatever by the time his comrades helped him limp from the restaurant. They decided it would be best to ditch Duo like a grenade back at the bungalow and take off, perhaps until the next morning.  
  
Heero, Trowa and Wufei felt a little bit guilty for not alerting Duo to the fact that he had unwittingly eaten Satan’s Inferno Fire-Fish from the Red Reef of Hell for dinner, and did their best to offer him solace. Wufei even proposed to euthanize him for free, but Heero told him not to put the idea into Duo’s mind since in a little while he might actually be willing to accept the gesture.  
  
They left Duo in the bathroom with a five-gallon bucket just in case he had to throw up and throw down at the same time and didn’t know which end to put in the toilet, and then gathered under the yellow porch light outside the bungalow. They could hear Duo retching and moaning from inside, and spent close to five minutes just staring at each other in silence, listening to a soundtrack of human explosions.  
  
“Well,” Trowa murmured, “I don’t think I’ll be coming back here tonight.”  
  
“Me neither,” Wufei said.  
  
“Ditto.”  
  
“You said it.”  
  
Silence. Retch. Pause. Heave. Squirt. Moan. Silence.  
  
“I think I’m going to hit the midnight greens,” Heero said, turning around. “Anyone want to volunteer to be my caddy?”  
  
“ _I’ll_ be your caddy, Heero,” Quatre said, after giving Trowa the Evil Eye. “It’s nice to know that _some_ people are so accepting.”  
  
“. . . Right. Trowa. Chang. Meet up with you later.”  
  
And Heero and Quatre wandered off into the night, presumably toward the nearest golf course.  
  
Wufei sighed heavily. “Well, Barton, guess it’s just you and me. I’m going to try my luck at the slot machines and then go down to the Pink Clam, but you can tag along, I suppose.”  
  
“What’s the Pink Clam?”  
  
“Titty bar. And if you ask me, you look like you could use some straightening out, so make sure you’ve got lots of fives and tens on you.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t like women?” Trowa mentioned as they began to walk away.  
  
“What? No, I love women,” said Wufei. “Especially when they take their clothes off for me.”

* * *

Heero—decked out in plaid knickerbockers, a polo shirt, white leather gloves, and a matching plaid beret—swung a 4-iron in a perfect drive to Hole 2. He squinted his eyes and watched the glow-in-the-dark ball drop onto the fairway several hundred yards from the intended target. Though the moon was full and bright, the night sky was partly cloudy, so every now and then Heero and Quatre found themselves lost in the pitch darkness with nothing to do but wait for the moon to come out again. The headlights on the golf cart were busted, too.  
  
“Damn it,” Heero muttered. “I knew I should have used a wedge on a par-5. Kaddi-san! My clubs!”  
  
Quatre lugged the massive bag of golf clubs over to Heero and dropped it on the ground. “You know,” he panted, “I don’t know the first thing about golf, but I know enough to know that you really, _really_ suck.”  
  
Heero perused the selection of irons. “Hate the game, not the playa.”  
  
“But it doesn’t make sense. Why play a game you’re no good at?”  
  
“I’m Japanese, Quatre. I love golf.” Heero peered down the shaft of lob wedge like a pool stick.  
  
“Even if you suck at it?”  
  
“Even if I suck at it.” Pause. “Quatre, did you just see that?”  
  
“See what?”  
  
“That pineapple out of the corner of my eye.”  
  
“Heero, I can’t see anything out of the corner of your eye.”  
  
“There! Look! There it is again!” Heero exclaimed, pointing off toward the point where the green met the edge of the jungle. “Just behind that fan palm. It was a monster of a pineapple, too. I bet you could make twenty upside-down cakes out of it.”  
  
“Heero . . .”  
  
“It looked pissed, too. I hope you’ve got some kind of tactical firearm, Winner, because my golf-jutsu isn’t what it used to be.”  
  
“No, Heero. I don’t have any kind of tactical firearm.”  
  
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. “Golfing at 2 AM in tartans, with wild damned _pineapples_ out there, with no weapons? Are you out of your mind?”  
  
“No,” Quatre sighed, “but it sure sounds like you are.”  
  
“ _Sugoi_. Well then, I suppose we’ll just keep playing and hope that vicious motherfucker doesn’t come after us. Hand me another beer, Kaddi-san. All these pineapples are harshing my buzz.”


	4. Coins, Clams and Calamity

Wufei was the first to regain consciousness that morning. He sat up, looked around, and panicked for a few moments because he couldn’t see dry land. Then he turned around and saw the shore a hundred or so yards off. He saw a dock. He saw a rope tied to the dock. He saw the rowboat he was sitting in attached to the rope that was tied to the dock.  
  
He also saw to his surprise that he was surrounded by piles and piles of coins. He also saw to his dismay that he was completely naked, and so was Trowa Barton, who was surrounded by similar mounds of pocket change and sprawled on the other side of the boat. From a distance it would have appeared that he was wearing skin-tight white shorts, but that’s the funny thing about really bad tan lines.  
  
As if on cue, Trowa blinked and sat up. He assessed the situation in similar fashion as Wufei: panic, relief, panic again, then excruciating embarrassment.  
  
The two young men covered their immodestly and listened to the seagulls for a few moments.  
  
“Sooo,” Wufei drawled, “you don’t remember what happened last night either, do you?”  
  
Trowa looked at all the coins. “Well, we either robbed a whole lot of parking meters or luck was on our side at the casino.”  
  
“I don’t think there are any vehicles on Saint Abalone, Barton.”  
  
“Must be from the casino, then.”  
  
“Hm. And we must have gone to the Pink Clam afterward. That would explain why our clothes are missing.”  
  
Trowa blinked. “No it wouldn’t.”  
  
“Yes it would, stupid. Strippers only take bills. We must have tried to drop some change in their slots and the vindictive she-devils got angry.”  
  
“That’s not vindictive, Chang. That’s psychopathic. They left us naked in a boat on the far end of the island.”  
  
“At least they anchored us.”  
  
“Yes, that was awfully nice of them. Remind me to send them a thank you card when we get back ashore.”  
  
They sat in the rowboat in brief silence.  
  
“Well,” said Wufei, “I suppose we ought to get going.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s pretty hot out here.”  
  
They reeled themselves back to the dock and were then faced with another dilemma:  
  
“There’s no way we’re going to be able to carry all these coins back with us.”  
  
“Well, we can always put them up—”  
  
“No.”  
  
Pause.  
  
“We can leave the boat here and—”  
  
“No way, Barton. It won’t be here when we get back, trust me.”  
  
Pause.  
  
“This boat is kind of light, wouldn’t you say?” said Wufei. “We could just carry the whole thing back with us.”  
  
Trowa looked distinctly troubled. “But if we use both hands to lift the boat, how are we supposed to cover our genitalia?”  
  
Wufei tried to wipe his own face off with his hand. “Okay. We move fast, then.”  
  
“Move fast to where? We don’t know where we are. We’re going to have to ask directions. Who’s going to give directions to two naked men carrying a rowboat filled with loose change?”  
  
“Alright, Barton. If you’re going to be that way, I’ll give it to you straight. Which is more important: the money, or our dignity?”  
  
They looked at each other and didn’t say another word. With the rowboat hoisted above their heads, they set off down the beach in search of civilization.

* * *

Quatre woke up looking at the sky. He sat up and thought he had died and gone to Heaven, because it looked like paradise: rolling green hills, a warm sweet breeze carrying the sound of the ocean in the distance, lush jungles all around, and a gorgeous morning sun peeking over the clouds in the east. It looked like Heaven, yes, except for the silhouette of Heero Yuy standing directly in front of the rising sun and urinating into 18th Hole. Then Quatre thought he was in Hell. But then he remembered he was on vacation with the four other Gundam pilots, and realized that he was actually in Purgatory.  
  
Heero let out a satisfied sigh, gave a little shake, zipped his fly and turned around. “Oh, good. You survived. Come on, Kaddi-san, let’s go.”  
  
He walked back to the completely wrecked, ruined, mangled, utterly mutilated golf cart and sat behind the wheel. Quatre ogled. It looked as if it had been thrown off the side of Mount Everest, hit every cliff on the way down, and then been tossed back together; all the tires were missing, the canvas top was in ribbons, the steering wheel was split in half, the frame struts looked like rotini noodles, and the golf clubs sitting in the back had more bends than a carton of paperclips. To make matters even more bewildering, the whole cart was sticky and coated with a film of fruity-smelling yellow pulp.  
  
Quatre slid into the seat beside Heero and asked, “What the hell happened last night?”  
  
Heero looked at his caddy grimly and turned the key. “You don’t want to know.” 

* * *

By sheer coincidence, Trowa and Wufei (stark naked, holding a rowboat on their shoulders) met Heero and Quatre (uncomfortably sticky, toting a bag of bent-up golf clubs) at the bungalow at the same time. The two pairs of pilots stared at one another for a while in absolute silence. Then there was a barely audible pop, and Quatre put a hand over his profusely bleeding nose. Heero and Wufei didn’t look at all surprised to see each other, but Trowa turned so red he appeared to be one degree away from spontaneous combustion.  
  
“Rough night?” asked Heero.  
  
“Rough enough,” Wufei muttered.  
  
Heero waded into the wreckage of the bungalow and tossed the bag of mangled golf clubs onto his and Duo’s bed, then looked around suspiciously. “It’s quiet,” he remarked.  
  
“Yeah,” said Wufei . “A little _too_ —”  
  
Trowa—naught but a naked blur—silently sprang past Wufei, launched himself into the air with a double axel, did a backflip off the mattress on the floor, and went straight into the bathroom. Through the door. Which happened to be closed. Legs first.  
  
The familiar sound of splitting timbers filled the room, then the crash and smash of a perfect landing.  
  
“Never mind.”  
  
Quatre walked into the room, mopping up his bloody nose with a handkerchief and looking alarmed. “Was that Trowa?”  
  
“No,” said Heero. “It was the other naked acrobat.”  
  
Wood clattered from the bathroom; there was a pause, and then: “I think I’ve found Duo.”  
  
Heero and Wufei crawled through the debris to the bathroom, and looked at the scene through the Trowa-shaped hole in the door: Duo, either dead asleep or just plain dead, was sitting on the toilet with his shorts around his ankles and a chum bucket in his lap, leaning back against the tank and snoring softly. Trowa picked himself off of the woodpile and made sure he hadn’t gotten splinters anywhere important. Like in his bratwurst.  
  
“Is he alive?” Heero asked, peering in cautiously.  
  
“Maybe he shit himself to death,” said Wufei softly. “Or had a heart attack. It happens, you know.”  
  
“Looks like he’s breathing,” Heero observed.  
  
“Could be rigor mortis.”  
  
“That would explain the smell,” said Trowa.  
  
Wufei tsked. “Already decomposing. Poor devil.”  
  
“But he smelled like that when he was alive.”  
  
“Well when the hell did _I_ become the carcass expert? Barton, do something.”  
  
Barton picked up a shard of the door and carefully poked the carcass-in-question with it. Duo stirred and lifted his head sleepily. “Mm. Wuh?”  
  
“He’s alive,” Trowa stated for the record.  
  
“Damn,” Wufei and Heero muttered.  
  
Duo looked around. “M’ I dreamin’? Ah. Nice brat, Trowa. Wow, what happened to the door? Oh hi, Heero. Chang. Damn, everybody’s naked. You guys have’n orgy last night or something?”  
  
Wufei put his hand over his mouth and turned around before he could respond with something that the author would be forced to censor (and if you’ve made it this far into the story, you know it’d have to be obscenely, outrageously inflammatory for me to censor it). Heero pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he was still drunk. Trowa stood in the pile of firewood and said, “Comfortable toilet, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Duo. “I slept real good.”  
  
Quatre appeared in the doorway, looking relieved to see Duo alive and well.  
  
“Thake good’ess you made id!” he exclaimed. “I was worried aboud you all nide.”  
  
Duo squinted at him. “Quatre. Are those . . . _tampons_?”

* * *

Since Duo was more or less over his brief bout of dysentery, and since the bungalow looked like ground zero at Chernobyl, our five heroes decided that they would spend the rest of the three and a half weeks of their vacation away from their lodging as much as possible. And in light of the recent events of the previous night, it was also decided that they would attempt to stick close to one another as much as possible since they now had both people and fruit to fear.  
  
Duo still reeked from his rendezvous with refuse the previous day, and as they were planning on heading down to the beach for some seashore recreation, they didn’t want him turning all the fish belly-up. So they forced him into the shower at knifepoint (courtesy of Wufei’s seppuku blade), whereupon the bathtub drain became clogged with wads of hair and water overflowed all over the floor. But at least Duo had gotten the smell off of him, so nobody seemed to care about the plumbing catastrophe.  
  
While Duo was detangling his hair and warbling _Say It Ain’t So_ , Trowa and Wufei hauled the rowboat inside and dropped it on the floor with plans to count the change later. Then they finally put some clothes on. Meanwhile, Heero had dragged out the cooler of liquor he had come home with the night before and had already downed a liter of Jose Cuervo when Quatre cautioned him about getting embalmed before ten o’clock in the morning.  
  
Heero drained the bottle, tossed it into the wall, belched terrifically, and beckoned for Quatre to sit next to him on the edge of the bed. Quatre obeyed, and Heero put his arm around his friend’s shoulders.  
  
“Kaddi-san,” he said slowly, “let me let you in on a lettle secret. Way way back in 1984, when I was just a wee _chibi_ , I was abducted by scheyenshis—shiningtish . . . a buncha guys in white lab coats. They used me for experimenting on me, and I’ve never been the same ever again.” He cracked open a bottle of Absolut and took a slug.  
  
Quatre paused. “And?”  
  
“And _what_?”  
  
“And what does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Nothing. Something. Hell, everything. Pick a number. That’s a last time I’m ever being nice to you.”  
  
“Heero . . .”  
  
Heero took Quatre by the chin and stared hard into his eyes. “You wanna know a truth? Pineapples. Are _everywhere_. Not the good kine, the bad kine. All of the bad ones are out there, in the trees, in the grass, under rocks, like Easter eggrenades only they’re pineapples. Their tops are aerials and they’re tracking me. The white-coat-guys wanna bring me brack to the lab again. I don’t wanna go back. And only when I’m incoxitate-kintoxicox . . . _drunk_ can I see them. I have to drink. I have to see them. See them before they get me.” He took another swig, and vodka dripped down his chin.  
  
“Heero, have you ever thought that maybe—just _maybe_ —the only reason you’re seeing pineapples at all is _because_ you drink?”  
  
Heero did not change expressions. He simply stood up and swayed out of the bungalow with bottle in hand.  
  
Wufei approached, dressed in a black Speedo and sunglasses and looking ready for his _GQ_ photoshoot. “What was _that_ all about?”  
  
“Nothing. He’s just drunk,” answered Quatre, who then paused thoughtfully. “Although he _did_ say something about pineapples coming to get him.”  
  
“Pineapples you say?” Wufei stroked his invisible goatee. “Hm, I think that might be a clue.”  
  
Duo walked by. “Yeah. Inspector Chang needs his license revoked.”  
  
“Maxwell, you don’t know fuck about shit so shut up.”  
  
“I don’t shut up, I throw up. And you go around and—”  
  
Duo narrowly missed getting a kneecap to the eye and made an emergency exit from the bungalow.  
  
Wufei turned to Quatre. “Anyway. You can tell me more about it on the jet ski.”  
  
“. . . the what.”

* * *

“Abducted by scientists, eh?” Wufei shouted over the incessant roar and splash of the personal watercraft as it cut through the waves. “Do you think it might be some kind of repressed memory brought to the surface by his recent marking as the sacrificial virgin?”  
  
Quatre, holding onto Wufei as tightly as he could, leaned over the side of the jet ski and barfed into the ocean for the third time in ten minutes. He was completely green with nausea.  
  
“I don’t know,” he moaned. “Wufei, do you think could you slow down a bit?”  
  
“We’re only doing fifty.”  
  
“I don’t care if we’re doing _five_ , slow down before I throw up again.”  
  
“Don’t you want to see how fast this thing can go?”  
  
“Do you want to see my small intestine hanging out of my mouth?”  
  
Wufei grumbled but slowed the craft to a stop. “Fine. Have it your way, Barbara.”  
  
“That’s _Raberba_.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Suddenly there came the similar sound of a 4-cylinder watercraft in the distance, and another jet ski appeared on their right, zigzagging crazily across the surface and sending rooster tails of water in every direction. It spent more time in the air than it did on the ocean, jumping across waves and looking as if it would flip over each time it landed.  
  
Wufei shook his head. “I don’t know _how_ the rental guy let him get behind the handlebars with an open bottle of booze,” he muttered as the jet ski pulled up alongside them and crashed into their starboard side. Quatre would have lost his leg were it not for his pussycat-like reflexes.  
  
Heero shut off the engine and finished the last of the Bacardi, then tossed the empty bottle away. It shattered against something in the middle of the ocean. Maybe a buoy, who knows. Behind him sat a petrified owl that looked a lot like Trowa, clinging tightly to Heero and hoo-hooing softly as it caught its breath.  
  
“ _WELL_ ,” Heero shouted, though it was really quiet out in the middle of the ocean. “AM OUTTA GO-JUICE SO I GUESS I’LL GO BACK TO THE BENCH. BEACH. NO PINEPAPPLES OUT HERE. HOW’RE YOU FOUR ENJOINING YOURSHELVES?”  
  
“Barbara and I are going to stay out here a bit longer—”  
  
“No! Please!” cried Barbara.  
  
“—see if we can hit Mach 1 in this bad boy, so we’ll meet up with you guys later.”  
  
“GODNOWHYYyyy . . .” The Chang-Winner torpedo  blasted off into the distance, taking the high-pitched scream with it.  
  
Heero and Trowa bobbed on their watercraft in silence, then Heero started up the engine. “WELL, WE NETTER BOT BLEAVE DUO BY HIMSHELLS FOR MUCH LONGER. YOU MEMBER WHICH WAY IS DRY LAND, TOROWA-KUN?”  
  
“I think it’s sixty two degrees east-northeast,” Torowa-kun hooted.  
  
“ARE YOU NNNNUTS? IT’S GOTTA BE A LEASE DATEY-FIVE DEGREES OUT HERE. SHUT UP, I’LL GET US HOME.”  
  
They shot off on the jet ski and toward certain death.

* * *

Certain Death happened to be snorkeling along a shallow reef not far from shore. “In search of mermaids,” he had told the others as he strapped on a pair of flippers at the dive rental hut. “Next time you guys see me I’ll be sleeping with the fishes. Literally.”  
  
“Please,” said Wufei, “don’t get our hopes up.”  
  
Right now Duo was rather enjoying himself, paddling through the water and looking at all the coral and sand and little sea creatures that made their home on the reef. He took a breath and dived down, and found himself staring at a flat, rocky expanse stretching across the grassy ocean floor. Curious, he reached out and picked up one of the funny little rocks and examined it.  
  
Suddenly, the rock split in half and let out a scream. The entire sea bed came alive as the rocks rose up like a swarm of angry bees. Little did Duo realize he had unwittingly disturbed a nest of rare and extremely aggressive Screaming Clams ( _Tridacna_ _Bansheeus_ ), the most vicious bivalves in the seven seas. He dropped the crazed creature and began to flail away from the cloud of snapping, murderous mollusks.  
  
But he didn’t flail fast enough.  
  
The clams overtook Duo, nipping and pinching him all over and screaming and wiggling their way into his swim trunks so that they could bite on the more tender pieces of his anatomy. And when those little bastards got to his sacred doubloons, Duo Maxwell went rocketing out of the water and six feet into the air, screeching through his snorkel like a panicked steam engine. The clams followed, bursting through the surface in pursuit of their quarry.  
  
Duo was already going 35 knots when he hit the water again, breaking at least six world records in six different aquatic sports as he jetted toward the shore. The rollicking clams followed him every stroke of the way, snapping at his flippers and clinging to his braid like pirates boarding a ship. 

* * *

Wufei parked his jet ski at the dock while Heero parked his jet ski _into_ the dock; the watercraft looked as if it had been shot out of a cannon and into the grill of a speeding Mack truck, but Heero was a talented young man and could total a pair of roller skates in less than five minutes. That was one of the most revered characteristics of being a Gundam pilot: the ability to utterly destroy any mode of transportation.  
  
As the four young men made their way down the dock, they were suddenly distracted by what sounded like a steam engine shrieking its way toward the shore . . .

* * *

The mean-ass clams didn’t relent their assault even when Duo hauled himself out of the surf like a dying walrus and began to thrash and kick and roll in an attempt to get them off. No one else on the shore seemed bothered by the sight of a man being masticated (and nearly emasculated) by mollusks, except for the four figures walking toward him out of morbid curiosity.  
  
“See, I told you it was Duo,” Trowa said to Wufei.  
  
They stopped and watched the action from several yards away. Heero cracked open a fresh bottle of J.D. and took a few polite sips. Quatre stared worriedly, Wufei stared staringly, and Trowa stared his usual apathetic, one-eyed stare.  
  
“Do you think we should help him?” asked Quatre.  
  
“Nah,” said Wufei. “He’s got it under control.”  
  
Duo wrenched his mask and flippers off and began to beat at the clams snapping all over his arms and legs. It wasn’t working. He jumped to his feet and ripped off his swimming trunks, using them to slap at the clams leaping around his legs like a pack of wild Chihuahuas. Still they persisted. Duo then performed an interesting dance, spinning in circles and hopping from one leg to the other while bellowing and braying a litany of the finest Catholic curses ever heard outside New York City. He had begun to attract attention, but not for his interesting use of Latin.  
  
Finally Duo yanked the last clam from the end of his braid and staggered away from the gasping, flopping bivalves that littered the sand. He stopped short when he saw his loyal compatriots standing safely out of range.  
  
Duo bent over and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “How long,” he panted, “have you sons of bitches been standing there?”  
  
“Long enough,” Trowa murmured.  
  
Heero up-ended his bottle.  
  
Wufei looked in another direction.  
  
Quatre’s nose began to bleed again.  
  
It was then that Duo realized he was standing on the beach in broad daylight, wearing nothing but clam bites and a thin layer of sand.

* * *

“Well,” said Quatre some forty five minutes later as they walked from the small island police station, “at least that officer was nice to you. He could have arrested you for indecent exposure.”  
  
Duo, in a perfectly noxious mood and wearing an ugly Day-Glo government-issue jumpsuit, turned to Quatre and snarled, “Your giblets are about to have an indecent exposure, you little goody two—”  
  
He started to lunge at Quatre but faceplanted onto the sunburnt, peeling chest of a very dissatisfied-looking circus clown.  
  
“Leave him out of this,” Trowa muttered. “He had nothing to do with those clams and you know it.”  
  
Quatre went glitter-eyed. “Trowaa,” he oozed.  
  
Duo glared like the God of Death glares upon Cher and said, “Go jump in a Volkswagen, Bozo.”  
  
Somewhere in the world a child’s balloon animal popped, and the only thing that saved the God of Death from becoming the God of Dead Meat was Wufei’s act of heroism as he threw himself against Trowa, who had murder in his eyes and rainbows in his heart.  
  
“Jeez, can’t you take a little occupational humor?” Duo griped, dodging just out of range of Bozo’s claws. “It’s not like _you’re_ the one who almost got eaten alive by a bunch of mother—”  
  
“Shut up, Maxwell, before you get yourself killed,” Wufei snapped, still trying to hold back Trowa. “Winner! Your Barton’s bitch. For God’s sake, help me out here!”  
  
“There there, Trowa! He didn’t mean it!” Quatre cried, and then began to hum a slow, soothing rendition of a Strauss waltz. It had the same effect as a 20cc tranquilizer dart to the temple. The fiery eyes were extinguished and Trowa abruptly relaxed, returning to his usual docile state.  
  
Wufei let go, and he and Duo stared in awe. “How did you _do_ that?”  
  
Quatre gave a gentle pat to Trowa’s hair. “Waltzes are like lullabies to clowns. Polkas, too. It’s their pacif—”  
  
BRAAP. “Uh God—” BRRUUULP. Hack. Spatter. Spit.  
  
All eyes fixed upon Heero, who was leaning into some tropical bushes that lined the sidewalk and emptying the contents of his keg. I mean his stomach. People passing by made disgusted faces and gave him a wide berth.  
  
Heero stood there, head in the shrubbery for a few drunken moments, one arm hanging limply while the other was wrapped around a palm tree. He gave one last hearty GRROP before turning around and pouring the rest of the whiskey on his face, missing his mouth completely. He tossed the bottle over his shoulder. There was no shattering of glass, but rather a hollow THUNK followed by some poor devil’s death-moan. Heero regarded his four comrades with his beautiful, blue, bloodshot eyes.  
  
“Loly hell,” he moaned, “you guyshure are preddy.”  
  
Then those beautiful, blue, bloodshot eyes rolled back into his head and he fell straight over into the bushes.  
  
Trowa suddenly blinked and shook his head. “What happened?”  
  
“You nodded off,” said Quatre. “Narcoleptic amnesia.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Somebody get that pie-eyed bastard on his feet,” Wufei muttered.  
  
Duo sighed and dragged the pie-eyed bastard from the foliage and hoisted him onto his shoulder. “How about we toss him back at the room and go have fun?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” said Wufei. “We can’t leave each other alone.”  
  
“Yeah, I know _that_.”  
  
“Listen, it’s dangerous for us to walk the island by ourselves, and _especially_ for the official sacrificial virgin. We have just one day left before you all see just how right I am, and when those wild islanders come, I want to be ready for them. Until then, we just act natural and pretend we don’t know anything. That shouldn’t be a problem for Maxwell.”  
  
Maxwell stopped mining for earwax with his pinky finger and looked up at the mention of his name. “Huh?”  
  
“You just hold onto Heero for now, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Don’t set him down anywhere and then walk away.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“What did I just tell you?”  
  
“Okay. I mean, don’t set him down and walk away.”  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
“Can we go to lunch now? I’m in the mood for clams.”

* * *

It turned out that Duo Maxwell had more than just a mood for clams; he had a vengeance. A vengeance that he wreaked at Pegleg Pete’s Seafood Shanty by ordering everything on the menu that contained clams. And since it was a seafood shanty, the shellfish selection was varied and lengthy. It was a good thing that this vacation was all-expenses paid, otherwise Duo might have been forced to take out a third mortgage on his junkyard.  
  
Heero lay slumped over in his seat with his head on the table, snoring lightly. Trowa, Quatre and Wufei watched as the American devoured plate after bowl after platter of unfortunate bivalves, and couldn’t for the lives of them figure out where he put it all, nor did they have any idea that clams could be prepared in so many ways.  
  
“Sure,” the bored-looking waitress had said, “we’ve got clam chowder, clam stew, clam soup, clam salad, lemon clam, clam fritters, clam cakes, clam club sandwiches, clam gumbo, Szechuan clam, sautéed clam, clam jerky, salted clam, baked clam, garlic-roasted clam, boiled clam, clam chips, clam dip, clam bisque . . .”  
  
“That isn’t a menu,” Wufei muttered. “It’s Schindler’s List.”  
  
“Total clam annihilation,” said Trowa.  
  
“It’s genocide,” Quatre amended.  
  
But genocide and total annihilation was good enough for Duo, who happily mowed down everything that came his way. He began to attract attention until a small crowd had formed around their table, with onlookers cheering each time he devoured another clam. Then some of the hotshots at another table got jealous, and that was how the Clam Eating Contest took over the entire restaurant, with three tables competing for who could scarf the most mollusks before the kitchen ran out.  
  
Quatre was disgusted by the whole event and went to sit at the bar and eat pretzels in peace. Trowa and Wufei encouraged Duo to stuff himself to the brim, but only because they had a secret bet running concerning the color and consistency of Duo’s undoubtedly forthcoming vomit.  
  
Heero came out of his alcohol-induced coma toward the end of the contest in time to see the self-proclaimed God of Death take the gold for eating the last clam in the whole joint. The crowd cheered and clapped and pounded the tables and made toasts and were having a mighty fine time of celebrating when Heero stood up from his chair and slapped a hand down on the table in front of the champion. Silence descended.  
  
“ _You_ ,” he said, squinting his eyes, “ain’t sheen nothin yet, sister.”  
  
The whole restaurant watched as Heero tottered across the floor to the aquatic display tank at the front counter; he pulled off the screen top and reached into the water. Tropical fish fled in fear as a human hand descended into their watery realm, and the oysters on the bottom snapped shut in defense. The short sleeve of Heero’s unsightly Hawaiian shirt adorned hula girls and surfboards was soaking wet by the time he plucked an oyster at random from the bottom of the tank and brought it to the surface.  
  
He walked back to where Duo sat, glared at him for a moment, and then put the entire oyster into his mouth. The peanut gallery was agog. Heero worked his jaw, and less than ten seconds later he leaned over the table and spat out a completely, totally, awesomely, polished-clean, empty shell.  
  
Quatre promptly began to gag.  
  
Trowa and Wufei’s mouths hung ajar like a pair of forlorn refrigerator doors.  
  
Duo stared up at Heero with a feeble, mortal sense of awe and tried to remember how to speak again. Someone in the back of the crowd declared, “I just got a stiffy.”  
  
“H-how did you _do_ that?” Duo finally managed to stammer.  
  
Heero smirked. Despite his state of inebriation, he looked crazy sexy. “I’m Japanese, Duo. We eat everything raw.”  
  
The crowd fell into murmurs and mumbles as Heero loped over to the bar to wash down his most recent snack with a martini.  
  
Duo slapped his hands down on the table and stood up. “Well, I’m officially done with seafood for the rest of my life. Goodbye.”  
  
Wufei nabbed him by the scruff of his jumpsuit before he could flee. “Not so fast, Maxwell. You’re supposed to watch over Yuy, remember?”  
  
“Yuy can take care of himself—did you _see_ what he did to that fucking oyster?”  
  
Trowa put an arm around Duo’s shoulder. “Duo, Heero is in a very vulnerable state right now.”  
  
“He is?”  
  
“ _Extremely_ vulnerable,” said Wufei. “He’s drunk, he’s paranoid, and he hasn’t direct-linked his brain with a computer for over 24 hours.”  
  
“No recent updates or anything,” said Trowa.  
  
“His operating system is completely nervous.”  
  
“We think he might have gotten a worm from one of those tequilas he downloaded.”  
  
“Hence the garbled communications,” said Wufei.  
  
“And the pineapple causality.”  
  
“You could say he’s stuck in an infinite fruit loop.”  
  
“Too much sugar in his serial ports,” said Trowa.  
  
“Until we can get him safely hooked up to an OC-12 line on the mainland, his life is in your hands.”  
  
“Oh, God!” cried Duo, looking heartbroken. “I didn’t know it was that bad!”  
  
“We just need you to keep an eye on his power supply and make sure no one tries to dismantle his hard drive,” said Wufei.  
  
“In fact,” said Trowa, “you should probably go check on him now. There’s always a risk when downloading raw files.”  
  
“Yes, go see if he’s processing it alright. Then we’ll all go to the water park and try to have—”  
  
But Duo had already bolted to the bar and begun to optimize Heero’s fragmented appearance like a loving motherboard.  
  
Trowa and Wufei silently fistbumped over his empty chair.  



End file.
